


Cuckoo in the Nest

by PennyLane



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 22:54:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PennyLane/pseuds/PennyLane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Human AU. Arthur is a famous novelist in hiding from the paparazzi after he is publicly humiliated when he is left standing at the altar. Alfred is the very competent personal assistant hired by Arthur’s agent to keep him hidden and safe while he completes his newest novel, the novel that just might change all their lives. [Previous Spain/England relationship.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cuckoo in the Nest

Arthur Kirkland pulled his knees up to his chest and gazed sadly at the smoldering butt of his cigarette. After a long moment of contemplation, he reluctantly added it to the collection nearly filling the decorative pot that was definitely not meant to be used as an ashtray. That had been his last cigarette. Now that he was no longer sucking smoke into his lungs he realized he felt a little queasy. Of course, that could be due to the fact that he had barely eaten enough to keep a newborn kitten alive over the three days he’d spent in this room; or it could be the amount of liquor he’d consumed over that amount of time. Or… Turning his head from where he was sitting pressed against the wall, he stared out the window into the rainy New York City dusk. It could be due to the fact that he was supposed to be on his honeymoon right now; and indeed he would have been under the Tuscan sun this very moment, counting himself the happiest man on earth if only his husband-to-be hadn’t left him literally standing at the altar in front of over three hundred guests and nearly as many members of the press, all waiting for a photograph of the newly married happy couple.

Happy couple. Now there was a laugh. Well, he supposed Antonio was happy, as he’d taken their cruise tickets and used them for himself and his barely-legal female co-star in their TV soap opera. Pictures don’t lie, and the internet had yielded up veritable bonanza of paparazzi photos of darkly handsome Antonio Carriedo and his little blonde bimbo cavorting on Mediterranean beaches. That same Google search had also turned up photos of himself, looking dazed and shell shocked as he was hustled out of the church, surrounded by sympathetic friends, as they ran the gauntlet of rabid press photographers. Francis had kept one strong arm around his waist and had used the elbow of his other arm to good effect, clearing a path to the limo that had been meant to take the newly-married couple off to their grand reception at the Ritz-Carlton. Arthur would have been just as happy with a small reception with a few of their close friends, but Antonio had been persuasive and Arthur had given in; after all, Tonio had told him with one of his sweet, dazzling smiles, it was only money. Only Arthur’s money was what he actually meant. 

Tonio did love the limelight, and while Arthur always preferred the quiet of the study in his Brownstone and the beautiful private garden he’d cultivated, he usually gave in to make his partner happy. After all, who would have thought a staid British writer of mystery novels could have pulled such a handsome, vibrant, exciting man as actor Antonio Carriedo? Arthur certainly never thought he could be so lucky. (And, now, it looked like he’d been right all along.) They were the darlings of society: the dashing, extravagant TV star and the quiet, literary Brit with books on best seller lists over the world. They were poster boys for gay couples everywhere, and they got almost as much ink as Brangelina in the press. 

Automatically, he hit the refresh key on the laptop by his side and blinked as even more links came up. The Daily Mail had made a meal of it, no surprise there, and more iPhone photos and videos were hitting the web. YouTube was overflowing with vids. There was one _terrible_ photo of him looking like he was about to cry as Francis bundled him into the limo, and oh yes, more photos of Antonio and his wench sucking face on a white sandy beach under a perfect sky. Yes, well. He closed the laptop lid, knowing he wouldn’t be able to help himself from checking again in another few minutes. His phone was next: one hundred twenty-three unread messages, but none from Antonio. 

He tossed the phone aside and let his head thump back against the wall. What was wrong with him? Why hadn’t he seen this coming? Why did all his relationships fail? This time, he had been so certain…and again he had been wrong. 

There was a knock at the door, and Arthur ignored it as he had all the others. Over the last three days, Francis had quietly rapped on the door to his guestroom to announce breakfast or lunch or dinner, and left the trays sitting outside the door. Arthur had accepted the pots of tea Francis always provided, but most of the meals remained untouched. (Except for the homemade scones; Francis knew his weakness there.) He always heard the sigh and rattle of dishes as Francis came back later and removed them, but other than that, Francis had left him alone. He knew he was being an arse; Francis Bonnefoy was more than his literary agent, and the two had known each other since they were roommates at university, but he just did not want to face anyone right now, not even someone who had only his best interests at heart and hadn’t once said, ‘I told you so.’ He wanted to sit here in all his unwashed glory in a pit of despair and depression and do Google searches on Antonio. It may not be entirely sane, but he honestly couldn’t think of anything better to do.

His head shot up as the door opened and Francis stood in the doorway. The Frenchman wrinkled his nose in distaste at the stale smell of the room (and probably of Arthur himself), then dropped some plastic shopping bags onto the chair by the door. “Enough is enough, Arthur,” he said flatly, and with a firmness in his tone that told Arthur he meant it. “I have allowed you to wallow for three days, but if you continue in this manner you will make yourself sick.”

“I don’t care.”

“ _I_ care, you ungrateful _rosbif_ ,” he snapped. “There are clothes in there,” he continued, nodding toward the bags. “Take a shower, shave, and get changed. I’m making dinner, and you are going to eat it. And then, _cher_ , we need to talk.”

Arthur had allowed his gaze to drift away while Francis was rapping out orders, but now snapped his eyes back to the other man. “Talk?” he asked uneasily. “About what?”

Francis’s stern features softened, but he only said, “After you eat. You realize you have stuffed your body full of toxins over the last three days. Tonight we will start to try to undo the damage.”

He turned to go, but Arthur frowned at the bags. “Oi, hold on. Are those my clothes in those bags? How did you get back into my house without those bloody paparazzi seeing you?”

Francis smiled a suspiciously sly smile, which immediately put him on guard. “Your place is still under siege, I’m afraid, so I did some shopping for you.”

“If you bought me some poncey French clothes –”

“French fashions would be wasted on you,” Francis sniffed. “No, I think you will find these clothes very…familiar.” He ran his eyes disapprovingly over Arthur. “After you have peeled off those smoke-and-alcohol soaked clothes, leave them in the bathroom and I will have them cleaned. Or perhaps burned.” And with that, he turned and swept from the room.

Arthur barely waited until the door closed before he was on his feet, across the room and snatching up the bags. Dumping them onto the bed, he opened the first one and pulled out a handful of blue material. He blinked at the blue jeans in his hands, then held them out to get a better look. Not just blue jeans, _skinny_ jeans, made of the kind of soft denim that told him they were damned expensive skinny jeans. He held them up to his legs and felt his eyebrows climb; it was only because he knew Francis never made a mistake when it came to clothes that he knew they would fit, although they would be like a second skin on him. “Bastard,” he muttered, but it was a half-hearted complaint. From the second bag he pulled out a t-shirt, an incredibly soft, silk t-shirt in a shade of green that he knew would set off his eyes, because Francis was always finding ways to get him to wear that color. The beginnings of a smile tugged at his lips. It was certainly a step-up from the torn jeans and band t-shirts he wore during his punk phase in college, but how like Francis to poke a little fun at him at a time like this to distract him. 

He was about to toss the empty plastic bag aside when he felt some weight to it in the bottom and reached in once more, pulling out a small jewelry box. There was a note attached to the top with Francis’s overly-elegant handwriting. “To complete the disguise.” His grin stretching, he opened the box and found the diamond stud. He hadn’t worn an earring in, well, more years than he cared to count, really. Certainly not since his first book landed on the New York Times Bestseller List and he traded in jeans and t-shirts for khakis and button down shirts and knitted waistcoats. Perhaps Francis had the right idea: perhaps it was time for a change.

 

When Arthur finally stepped out of the guest room, he felt – and looked – like a different man. He was still upset and depressed, and felt as if a rug had been pulled out from under him, but it did seem as if he’d taken a step away from the broken man Francis had brought back to his flat. At least he didn’t feel the overwhelming urge to keep checking his phone for a text message from Antonio, begging his forgiveness. He considered that a major victory. Of course, his fingers still itched for a cigarette and he longed for the pain-dulling properties of alcohol, but he knew he’d have to leave the safety of Francis’s flat for either of those things; and he just wasn’t ready to face the world – or the flash of paparazzi cameras – yet. And, frankly, he didn’t know when he would be ready for that.

Francis walked out of the kitchen and ran his eyes appreciably over Arthur. “I knew you would clean up well, _cher_ ,” he said dryly. Walking up to him, Francis laid his hands lightly on Arthur’s shoulders and gave him a kiss on each cheek. “Welcome back.”

When he went to pull back, Arthur stopped him by putting his arms awkwardly around him and pulling him in for a brief hug. He wasn’t a huggy sort of person – he protected his personal bubble with the tenaciousness of a bulldog - but Francis put up with a lot from him, and he honestly didn’t know what he would have done without him these last three days. “Thanks, frog,” he said, his voice a bit hoarse.

Francis laughed lightly, although Arthur could tell he was surprised and touched. “Come,” he said, hooking his arm through Arthur’s and leading him to the small but elegant dining room. “A light meal tonight until we are sure your stomach can tolerate it, and then tomorrow, back on a regular diet.”

Francis was a fabulous cook, and Arthur ate whatever he put in front of him without demur, but his mind was still worrying over what Francis might want to talk about. He was very much afraid it was his latest book, and if Francis told him what he himself suspected – that it wasn’t up to scratch and publishing it would be a mistake – he didn’t know what he was going to do. That book represented nearly a year of his life and he wasn’t sure that he could start again, especially now that he felt like he’d been knocked for six.

Francis kept the conversation light, sharing gossip about people they both knew in the publishing world, and Arthur nodded in what he hoped were the right places, while his mind wandered in another direction.

He knew he’d come a long way from someone whose home life as a child had been filled with drunken rows between his parents, incessant bullying from older brothers, and outright neglect as to his welfare. Scholarships had gotten him through college, and he’d left home to never return, working as many jobs as he could handle to make ends meet and crashing with friends during the summer months when school was out. He’d even spent one summer in France as a guest of Francis, and the two had hitch-hiked across Europe, an invaluable experience for him, even if he had had to put his pride on hold and allow Francis to pay for most of their food and lodging. The fact that Francis had been living on a trust fund hadn’t made it any easier for him to accept, but in the years that followed, he had done his best to repay that generosity. 

After college, as he was struggling to establish himself as a writer, Francis was striving to make a name for himself in the publishing world. It had been Francis’s idea to represent Arthur, and since Arthur had no better offers, he had agreed. Francis was the one who had flogged his first book to the different publishing houses, his enthusiasm and optimism never flagging. He insisted the book was good and would find a publisher and an audience, and in the end he had been right. 

They had celebrated the sale of his first book with a bottle of champagne from the vineyard of Francis’s family and a night of sex so astonishing that it had surprised them both. But the next morning when they looked at each other over the tangled, sex-scented sheets, they both realized they didn’t want to be friends-with-benefits, nor did they want something more serious. They both treasured what they had as friends and counted themselves lucky that they realized that before it was too late. But that one night had added an extra layer to their friendship, and from that moment on, Francis had been a little protective of Arthur when it came to his relationships. Arthur acknowledged to himself that was probably because while Francis casually drifted in and out of relationships, Arthur tended to _throw_ himself into relationships, desperate to find what he had always longed to have, and when they inevitably crashed and burned, it was never pretty. Then it was usually left to Francis to pick up the messy pieces.

The first book had been a surprise success, and Francis suggested he build on that by writing a series, using his two main characters, since they had been so well received. Since that time, Arthur had turned out best sellers on regular basis. If Agatha Christie was the Queen of the Cozy Crime genre, the critics said, then Arthur Kirkland was the Crown Prince. His cozy mysteries were staples in bookstores, his book signings were always crowded events that left him exhausted, the talk shows scrambled to sign him, and his readers loved his heroes, eccentric Oxford don Edmund Bancroft and quirky sidekick, physician Wade Fletcher. The critics, and his fans, called the duo the Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson of the twenty-first century. And things just kept getting better: a cable network brought several of his books for TV, there were websites dedicated to his characters and his books, and he was gaining new readers for his older books, thanks to e-books. And, not to forget, he was engaged to the wickedly handsome, charismatic TV soap opera star, Antonio Carriedo.

But there had been something…off in writing his most recent book. Whether it was boredom with the genre or his own characters or, what worried him the most, he had simply run out of good stories to tell, he didn’t know. All he knew was, he realized the finished manuscript wasn’t good, and he didn’t know how to fix it.

Francis was in the middle of telling him what was probably a very amusing story about the running feud between two editors of their acquaintance when Arthur quietly laid aside his silverware and looked at him across the table. 

“What did you want to talk to me about, Francis?” he asked tensely.

Francis looked at him for a moment, then took a sip of wine and pushed his plate aside, giving Arthur his full attention. “I wanted to talk to you about the book.”

Arthur nodded, not surprised, but still feeling the flutter of panic in his stomach. “I don’t know how to fix it,” he blurted.

Francis seemed to have an internal conversation with himself before shaking his head. “I don’t think it can be fixed, _cher_ ,” he said gently. “You must know that the plot is flawed, and I see no way to make the premise work. And the writing itself is somewhat flat. It would be a mistake,” he continued carefully, “to take this book to Harrington.”

“I know,” Arthur admitted finally, helplessly. “I don’t know why I even kept going.”

Francis let out a little sigh. “I think perhaps you were distracted.”

“You never liked Antonio, did you?” It wasn’t an accusation; Arthur was just curious. Tonio had always been at his most charming with Francis, possibly sensing, incorrectly, a rival.

Francis took another drink of wine before answering. “I didn’t think you two were suited for one another.” He gave Arthur a direct look. “And I didn’t think he had your best interests at heart.”

“Obviously not,” Arthur replied bitterly. But then he dropped his head into his hands and pulled at his hair. “What am I going to do, Francis? I have a contract with Harrington and I don’t have a _bloody book_!”

“Leave Harrington to me,” Francis said briskly, “and cease worrying about that.”

“What should I worry about?” Arthur demanded, looking up. “The fact that I can’t _write_?”

The other man rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, we know all about your insecurities, Arthur. They are the same insecurities as every other writer. After you finish each book, you cry to the heavens that you have no more ideas and will never be able to write another book. I have heard the same thing after every single book you have written, and then you write another best seller.”

“But what if it’s true this time? Francis, I don’t have any more ideas for these characters! I knew that when I was writing this book.”

Bonnefoy nodded knowingly. “You’re bored with them. At least for the moment.” He cocked his head thoughtfully. “So write about something else.”

“What?” Arthur demanded, throwing his hands up. “How to grow roses?”

Francis dabbed his mouth daintily with his napkin. “Tch, Arthur, you expect me to do all the work? You are the writer, I am merely the agent.” Then he set his napkin aside and leaned forward, arms on the table, giving Arthur a patient look. “When we were in college, a week did not go by that you did not have a new idea for a book. You filled notebooks with ideas and scenes and outlines, did you not?”

Arthur remembered those days: the ideas seemed to come one right after the other. What had happened to him? “That was a long time ago,” he mumbled.

“So? You are still the same person, only with more experience now as a writer.” When Arthur didn’t respond, Francis sat back with a sigh. “Do you know what I think? I think you have grown comfortable with cozy crimes and with Edmund and Wade and simply stopped thinking outside that world.”

“You mean I got lazy,” Arthur said flatly. Even knowing that Francis was never anything but honest with him regarding his writing, and that was one of the things he most respected about him, didn’t mean criticism didn’t sting.

“Arthur, your books were bestsellers; they won awards; you won critical acclaim: why would you look elsewhere? But perhaps now, it _is_ time to look elsewhere, to stretch, to explore, to try something different.” Arthur opened his mouth, and Francis held up his hand. “And don’t tell me you can’t, because I know you can.”

Arthur pushed his plate aside a little sullenly. “Edmund and Wade were…safe,” he admitted. “Francis, I’m afraid…I’m afraid I may have lost my nerve.”

Francis chuckled, his tone annoyingly amused. “The editor of the college newspaper who stood up to both the administration and the alumni association to print articles he thought were relevant, who wrote unpopular editorials against practices he felt were unjust, and who spearheaded a rally to protest the dismissal of a gay teacher who was up for tenure?”

Arthur felt his cheeks burning, but he held his hand up to stop Francis. “All right, all right, I take your point.” He squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his temples, trying to will away the headache that was just starting to throb there. “I don’t have any choice, do I?” He opened his eyes and looked across the table at his agent. “I’m putting you in a terrible position, aren’t I?” he asked, feeling a stab of guilt. “I’m going to default on a contract. Once that gets around –”

“It won’t. I will handle Harrington. Arthur, you have made millions for them; they don’t want to lose you and they certainly don’t want to tarnish your reputation, as that would affect their bottom line. This type of thing is what public relations departments are for.” He hesitated, then added, “I don’t mean to sound callous, but we can use what happened with Antonio. I’ve already taken several phone calls from Harrington; you have friends there, Arthur, at very high levels, and they are concerned for you. But I very much doubt I can buy you more than a year.”

He nodded his understanding and took a deep breath. He owed it to Francis, hell, he owed it to the publishing company that gave him his start. Besides, writing was a part of him, he started going a little crazy if he couldn’t write something – even if it was a grocery list or a limerick – almost every day. He was just worried that his head was so filled with Tonio and what had happened, and the fact that everywhere he looked he saw some reminder of their time together, that he wasn’t going to be able to relax and concentrate. But before he could voice his concern, Francis stood and walked over to stand behind him, placing his hands on his shoulders.

“Knowing you, you haven’t slept more than an hour or two in the last three days. Go to bed, get some rest, and let me scheme. I have an idea.”

“It had better be a damned good one, frog.”

Francis’s response was a light kiss on the top of his head.

 

Arthur raised the shade of the window by his side as the plane descended through the clouds and looked down on the green that was his homeland. This had been Francis’s plan: return to England, return to his roots, get away from everything that reminded him of Antonio, and get a fresh perspective. Arthur had to admit, as plans went, it wasn’t a bad one. What impressed him was how Francis had managed to bring everything together in a week’s time.

The first thing his agent did the morning after their dinner, was to exact an iron-clad promise from Arthur to stop stalking Antonio on the internet. Arthur had squawked and hotly denied, but Francis had merely performed some sort of computer magic and pulled up a complete list of every website Arthur had visited over the last three days, including his many, many visits to YouTube and tabloid sites. Shamed – and secretly grateful for the intervention – Arthur had promised. It had actually been a relief to have that promise standing between him and even more photos of his ex-fiancé having the time of his life with someone else. The second thing Francis did was take charge of his phone, delete all the unread messages, and turn it off. Arthur remembered thinking this was what it must feel like to have a nanny.

Then he pointed to a neat stack of cardboard boxes that had materialized in the dining room apparently overnight. Arthur had blinked at them stupidly before recognizing them as his storage boxes of the notebooks Francis had spoke of the night before. How Francis had gotten into his house under the radar of the paparazzi he couldn’t guess (for all he knew, Francis had hired someone to break in under cover of darkness), but he’d brought those boxes out and then left them and Arthur together.

What Francis did after that Arthur couldn’t say. He was aware of Francis spending hours on the phone and on his laptop, but Arthur had spent the next few days going through those boxes and reading everything in those notebooks that he’d written while an idealistic college student with big dreams. He’d been equal parts amazed and appalled. He’d forgotten most of this, forgotten how enthusiastic and how… _daring_ he had been in his ideas and his writing. The person who wrote this probably wouldn’t recognize the guy in his tweed suits and button down shirts who wrote cozy crimes. But, were any of these ideas salable? 

He spent the next two days on his laptop, writing outlines and ideas and thoughts as they came to him. He didn’t spent time worrying if anything made sense, he just wrote things as they came to him. By the time he’d finally closed the lid on his laptop, Francis was waving a British Airways ticket under his nose and telling him to get ready, because they were going shopping.

For his last night in New York, Francis invited over Arthur’s closest friends, the trusted few who could be told where he was going. Everyone in Francis’s living room was in the publishing business in some form or another, and there wasn’t anyone there who didn’t understand about a writer ‘going dry’. Arthur was grateful for their support and encouragement, which seemed to be summed up when Bella, a struggling writer who had finally found success in the YA market, took his hands, looked him right in the eye, and told him, “You’ve got more inside you than you’ve shown the world yet, Arthur. Go to England, find your voice again, and then show the world.”

So here he was, dressed (in Feliks’ words, “Like, so totally cute, Artie! How long have I been telling you to stop dressing in your old man clothes? It’s, like, about time _someone_ listened to me.”) in clothes picked out on the shopping spree. He refused to spend over seven hours on a plane with jeans plastered to his skin, so the skinny jeans went into the suitcase, but he did agree to some nice, comfortable jeans, a beautiful pair of soft leather boots, a t-shirt and casual jacket. The New York Yankees baseball cap was courtesy of a grinning Matthias. He had to admit, looking in a mirror, that he wouldn’t recognize himself as the person on the jacket of his books, which was the point. He made his escape from New York; now if he could get through Heathrow without attracting attention and get out to the country house Francis had leased, he should be home free. 

As the plane began its descent, he could only hope the personal assistant Francis hired was up to the job.

 

Alfred F. Jones flicked another glance at the picture on his iPhone, then held his sign up a little higher in front of him and continued to scan the crowd pouring in from Customs. The sign said ‘Preston’, which was the name (It was a codeword! Totally a codeword!) Francis Bonnefoy told him to put on the sign to identify himself to Arthur Kirkland. He took a couple of deep breaths to settle his nerves and reminded himself that he looked totally awesome in his neatly pressed suit (the ironing courtesy of his cousin, Matt) and that this job was the chance of a lifetime for the small temp agency he owned with Matt and he couldn’t afford to screw up. In fact, those were the last words Mattie said to him as he left to make the drive to Heathrow: “Don’t screw this up, Al.” No pressure or anything.

As if he’d screw this up! Together with his cousin, Matthew Williams, Alfred owned a little specialist temp agency (they didn’t provide regular office help; they provided _specialists_ , personal assistants, people who could get the job done, no matter how demanding the job or the client.). They prided themselves on their thick skins and their wide variety of skills. Alfred himself had an MBA along with mad computer skills and a degree in computer security; and Mattie was not only tri-lingual – English, French and Spanish – but had his own masters degree in English and a few scattered bachelor’s degrees in art history and human resources, along with having graduated from a school of Le Cordon Bleu. Mattie never could make up his mind what direction he wanted to go in, so he just kept taking classes and collecting degrees. He was kind of an over-achiever like that. A year ago they’d done a job for a small French publisher who was in London to investigate opening a branch there. Actually, Mattie with his flawless French had done the job, but he’d done it brilliantly and had apparently made such an impression that when a literary agent in New York by the name of Francis Bonnefoy was looking for a personal assistant to babysit a writer he was sending to England, they had come highly recommended by that same publisher-friend of Bonnefoy. If Alfred weren’t such a fan of self-determination, he could come to totally love kismet. 

Alfred hadn’t heard of Francis Bonnefoy (although a few discreet inquiries and a Google search provided him all he needed to know), but even his comic book loving self had heard of Arthur Kirkland. If he hadn’t, his cousin certainly could have filled him in, because he owned every book Kirkland had ever written and apparently had some sort of a man crush on Kirkland. Or one of the characters in his book, Alfred wasn’t sure which. Right now Matthew was sitting back at the office sulking because the requirements of this job called for Alfred’s special talents. (Hey, it wasn’t his fault he’d spent his formative years on a horse ranch in Texas while Mattie grew up in Montreal or that he could set up any electronic system you threw at him with his eyes closed.) 

On the face of it, this gig looked to be one of the most interesting – and certainly most lucrative, seeing as they were contracted for a year – they’d ever had. Bonnefoy had made it clear that Arthur Kirkland was coming to England to seclude himself at a country estate and write a book, and that it was the job of the personal assistant to ensure his privacy and take care of everything else, including providing his meals, setting up everything he needed for his computer, chauffeuring him around, running errands, cleaning, providing security, and – best of all – acting as groom for the two horses that would be established in the stable. If ever there was a dream job, Alfred reckoned, this would be it. 

If there was one twist in all this, it was that the newest game on the internet and in the tabloids right now was ‘Where in the World is Arthur Kirkland?’ After reading just a few of the stories on the tabloid sites, Alfred was feeling genuinely sorry for the Brit. The poor guy must feel like the fox hearing the baying of the hounds getting closer and closer. No wonder he wanted to sneak into England and hide in the country. 

Alfred looked once again at the picture he’d downloaded to his phone, and not for the first time thought ‘pretty eyes’ and ‘what a cutie’, quickly followed by ‘keep your mind on business, Al.’ (That voice sounding irritatingly like Matt’s.) When he looked up again to scan the crowd, he found himself staring at a pale, slim man in a Yankees cap, his ash blond hair sticking out defiantly in all directions from underneath. Alfred took a step to the side in order to get a clear view of the crowd, frowning in annoyance as the other man took a step to match his. With a polite, “Excuse me,” he took a step to the other side, only to have the man do the same, his rather impressive eyebrows drawing together in irritation.

“You’re here for Mr. _Preston_ ,” the man said distinctly in a British accent.

“That’s what the sign says, buddy. Now, if you’ll excuse –” His mind thought ‘pretty eyes’ just as his brain caught up with him. “Oh!” Then he grinned, sticking up a thumb in approval. “Awesome disguise,” he whispered in a loud voice.

Kirkland winced. “Keep your voice down,” he hissed, and looked around at the milling crowd, his shoulders hunching defensively. 

Alfred’s protective instincts immediately kicked in as he remembered what this guy had been going through for the last week and that Bonnefoy told him he’d have to act as bodyguard if the situation called for it. This was really going to be the most dangerous part. Every newsagent in the airport was filled with tabloids, and every tabloid had front page photos of Kirkland’s ex romping with his blonde bimbo, and most of them all had an insert of one particular photo of him looking like he was about to cry. Along with the danger of Kirkland being recognized, Alfred didn’t want him to see those pictures. Deftly relieving the man of his suitcase, Alfred slipped an arm around the other man’s back and placed his hand on the small of Kirkland’s back, gently but firmly guided him toward the exit for the parking garage. “It’s fine,” he said in a low voice. “Just relax and try not to look around like you’re expecting trouble. We’re going directly to the car.”

Kirkland had stiffened at the first touch, but gradually relaxed a little as Alfred expertly guided him through the crowd. He kept an eye out as they moved, but no one was giving them a second look, understandable given the way the writer was dressed. The backpack hanging off one shoulder completed the disguise, making him look like any other tourist from across the Pond. Alfred had been standing barely a foot from him and he hadn’t recognized him.

“Just keep your head down and let the cap do its job,” he said in a low voice, and guided Kirkland to the exit, keeping their pace in line with everyone else’s. He’d learned a lot from Ludwig, their security expert on staff, and he’d gone over several scenarios for this part. But everyone else was as anxious as they were to make their exit from the airport, and no one was paying them any attention.

He’d parked as close as he could get in the parking garage, and as he was stowing the bags in the trunk, he watched with amusement as Kirkland, obviously suffering from a bit of jet lag, began walking to the driver’s side. He stopped and blinked at the steering wheel visible through the window, then huffed in annoyance and turned and walked to the other side. Once they were both inside and belted in, Alfred turned to Kirkland with a grin. “Too many years in the States?”

The Brit blinked in confusion, then offered a small smile before quickly looking away, his cheeks turning a dainty – and attractive – shade of pink. This guy wasn’t at all like Alfred had expected, given the stuff he’d seen on the internet; he and his ex-fiancé seemed to always be in the limelight, but in person he seemed a little shy. It was kind of endearing. “Well, I won’t be trusting myself to drive over here for a while, that’s for certain.”

“No worries there,” Alfred said cheerfully, starting the car, “you’ve got a chauffeur.” He waited until they had cleared the garage and were on the highway before saying, “So, Mr. Kirkland –”

“Oh, let’s not – it’s Arthur, please. I don’t stand on ceremony, and I don’t think I can bear to listen to ‘Mr. Kirkland’ for a year. And you’re Alfred Jones, correct?”

Alfred cringed a little inside, realizing he hadn’t introduced himself, but nodded immediately. “That’s right, the one and only. Here to see to your every need.” He slid a sideways look at Arthur. “I think Mr. Bonnefoy checked out our agency pretty good before he hired us, but let me assure you, we – I can handle the job. I’m here to see to your every need, and if you have any questions or you need anything that I’m not providing, you just let me know.”

He might have come across just a tad bit overenthusiastic, because there was a brief silence, followed by Arthur clearing his throat. “Well, that’s…that’s very reassuring, Alfred. I’m very… that is… oh, bollocks,” he huffed, taking of his hat and running his hands through his hair, resulting in even more disarray. “This was Francis’s idea. It was a very good idea,” he conceded, “because it leaves me free to write and not worry about the little things, like feeding myself and doing laundry, and going out shopping, but I have to confess, I’ve never had a personal assistant before. So I’m not exactly certain what the… protocol is.”

Alfred took his eyes off the highway long enough to flash him a wide grin. This guy was _adorable_. “Well, it works like this: you work on your book and I worry about everything else. This is what our agency does, so I promise you, you’re in good hands.”

“Well…ah, that’s good to know.” He didn’t sound very sure of that, but Alfred just gave him his most confident smile and nodded. He’d just have to show Arthur Kirkland how good he was at his job.

The silence between them stretched, and when Alfred next slid another glance over at his passenger, he found him dozing, his head resting against the glass of the side window. Shrugging philosophically, he turned his attention back to the highway and continued the drive in silence.

 

Alfred watched as Arthur stood beside the car and looked around the estate selected by Francis Bonnefoy from the list provided by Alfred and Ludwig, based on all the criteria he had provided. Of them all, this one was Alfred’s favorite, and Ludwig had been satisfied from a security standpoint. Alfred watched as Arthur’s features slowly relaxed in response to the beautiful surroundings and the sense of solitude.

“Oh,” Arthur said softly, a sense of wonder in his tone.

“Remind you of where you grew up?” Arthur let out a bark of harsh laughter, and Alfred looked at him uncertainly. “I’m sorry, did I say something stupid?” ( _Again_.)

Kirkland immediately looked apologetic. “Not stupid; simply misinformed. And we can thank Francis for that. Once my books started hitting the bestseller list and the media started getting interested in me, he did some rather creative editing on my personal background.”

Alfred’s eyebrows climbed. “Oh yeah?” He grinned. “I hope you remembered to remove the prison tattoos.”

Arthur snorted. “Nothing so dramatic, I’m afraid. My childhood was rather boring, and he managed to make it even more boring.” 

Alfred nodded. He got it. Arthur Kirkland was a private guy and he wanted to keep it that way. Convince everyone your past was boring enough and they wouldn’t bother poking at it. 

“But to answer your question, I grew up in a working class family in London. These days I suppose we would have been called ‘the working poor.’ The closest I would have come to a place like this would have been seeing it in a film.” Arthur looked around and smiled a little wistfully. “But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about living somewhere like this.”

This place was a far cry from Kirkland’s life in New York and Alfred had to bite his tongue to keep from saying that. The guy had enough money to live anywhere he chose, so what had stopped him? Writers could write anywhere. “Would you like a tour? I’ve been over the whole place with my security guy, and I think you’ll like how secluded we are. But we’re still close enough to the nearest village for me to pop in to get anything you need.”

Kirkland chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, then sighed. “I’m sure Francis made you aware of my…recent situation, even if you haven’t read it in every tabloid or every gossip page on the internet. But I’m not a rock star, and I’m not in any danger. My biggest concern is having enough quiet around me that I can concentrate and write. It is _essential_ that I get this book written, and I can’t do that with a media circus around me.” He frowned at Alfred. “I hope Francis didn’t make you feel like you had to be some sort of bodyguard.”

Alfred rubbed the back of his neck a little sheepishly, because that is exactly what Bonnefoy had told him. “Let’s just say he made it perfectly clear what he’d do to me if I let anything happen to you or let you get distracted from your from writing.”

“I’ve been taking care of myself for most of my life, and I assure you, I don’t need that kind of protection. But rest easy,” Arthur said dryly, “Francis is no mob boss; he’s not going to send a hit man after you.”

“No, but he could destroy the reputation of my agency,” Alfred said seriously. “We haven’t screwed up an assignment yet, and I don’t plan to start with this one.”

“Well, I don’t think I’ll be much of a challenge,” Arthur said mildly. “I won’t be visiting any nightclubs and I’m certainly not planning on getting any new photos in the paper. All I want to do is write. Now about that tour…” Arthur’s gaze lit on the stables and his eyes gleamed with excitement. “How about we start with the stables?”

“Excellent choice. I think you’ll like the little gal I picked out for you.”

Arthur looked at him in interest as they walked toward the stables. “What’s your background with horses, Alfred?”

“My grandparents owned a horse ranch in Texas. I spent all my summers there when I was growing up. I was in the saddle from the time I got up in the morning until I went to bed at night. I learned how to ride, how to rope, and how to care for them. How about you?” Alfred hesitated before admitting, “Mr. Bonnefoy said to get you a horse that wasn’t too demanding.”

“I’ll bet he did. Truth is, I didn’t learn to ride until a few years ago. I always wanted to, but it wasn’t until I was an adult that I had the opportunity. I never got out as often as I’d like, especially over the last year, but riding always helped me think. I plotted several books from the back of a horse.” He sighed. “I’m afraid I’m a bit rusty, so a horse that isn’t too skittish or headstrong would certainly be best.”

They reached the stables and Alfred led him inside over to the first stall. “In that case, I think you and Susie will get along just fine. Arthur, this is Susannah, Susie for short.”

Arthur walked up to the stall, and Alfred could see from his face that he was already captivated by the lovely dapple-gray mare. “Oh, you’re a lovely lass, aren’t you?”

Alfred watched with approval as Arthur and Susie got to know one another, Arthur careful and gentle with her, and Susie naturally curious. He’d chosen Susie because of her sweet nature, and knew she’d be perfect for a near novice rider. “She’s got a nice, smooth canter and she trots like a dream, and she’s very responsive, so you can be light on the bit. The only thing is, she doesn’t like thunder, so if you’re out and a storm comes up, keep her on a short rein, or better yet, dismount and lead her.”

“I’m sure we’ll get along famously,” Arthur said, crooning as he stroked her neck. A neigh from the neighboring stall caught his attention and he looked around. “Oh, you’re a big fellow,” he said warily, blinking at the other head that appeared over the stall.

Alfred laughed as the dark bay stallion with the white star on his forehead strove to get his attention. “This is Liberty,” he said proudly, giving his horse the attention he craved. 

Arthur watched the interaction for a moment, then said, “He’s yours?”

“Yep. So I can show you around the estate; and in case you want some company on your rides, or in case I think you _should_ have some company or at least a shadow.” He gave Liberty a final pat on his neck, then turned to Arthur, “There are some great trails around here. We can go out together – at least the first time – and I’ll show you around. They’re all nice trails, and there’s some cross-country riding too, if you want that. I’ll show you the routes that should suit, if you want some pretty scenery and an easy ride.”

Arthur cocked his head as he looked at him, a hint of a smile on his lips. “You’ve been busy. You didn’t have much time to pull this together, did you?”

“Nope,” Alfred said cheerfully. “But it was a group effort. We have a great team at our agency, and, like I said, we’re good at what we do.”

Arthur gave him a smile that was more relaxed and bit more genuine this time, and then went back to crooning at Susie.

 

The rest of the tour went well, and Arthur seemed pleased with the house and the set-up. Alfred showed him the room he’d chosen for the writer’s office – “But we can change it if you don’t like it. I just thought since it looked out into the garden, that would give you a nice, restful view.”

The desk and the cozy, tasteful room warranted barely a glance from Arthur, as he caught a glimpse of the garden through the window and made a beeline for the door. Alfred grinned to himself as he followed. The garden had probably been the toughest part of this set-up. It had been badly neglected, and the sight of it had caused Feliciano to burst into tears. (Of course, Alfred had seen a pot of overcooked pasta cause Feliciano to burst into tears, so…) Regardless, Feliciano Vargas wasn’t their horticultural expert on staff for nothing. It had taken him the entire week to bring it up to his exacting standards, and now even Alfred, who never really paid much attention to flowers and shrubs and stuff, had to admit, it was really something special. Bonnefoy had told them ‘roses and plenty of them’, and Feliciano had been happy to oblige. There really wasn’t much Feliciano liked better than spending a client’s money on plants and shrubs and then arranging them in the ground to his satisfaction, and he had outdone himself this time. When Mattie had seen it, he sighed happily and said something about a secret garden. That had set Feliciano off as he nodded his head enthusiastically and the two had made the rounds of the garden with Vargas pointing out all his special touches. Alfred assumed his cousin was referring to one of those girlie books he was always reading, but he himself wasn’t that much of a philistine that he couldn’t appreciate the serene beauty and soft scents of the little enclosed garden. It was Mattie who set up the birdhouses – with Feliciano’s permission, of course -- and now the air was filled with bird song and little flitting birds. All in all, quite a nice refuge for someone who might be looking for one.

“This is lovely,” Arthur breathed, looking around at the beautifully coordinated riot of color. “Absolutely beautiful.”

“One of our guys did this,” Alfred said proudly. “I’ll tell him you liked it.”

“Oh, yes, very much.” 

It had been Feliciano’s idea to bring in the little garden table and chairs, insisting that anyone who appreciated a garden like this would want to take their tea out here, and Alfred saw Arthur beaming at the set-up.

In fact, Alfred thought that might be his cue. “You’re probably pretty tired after your trip. Why don’t you relax out here for a while, and I’ll bring you a cup of tea?”

Arthur started and looked at him quickly. “You don’t need to --” 

Alfred held up an index finger. “Remember, that’s why I’m here,” he said, flashing his best grin.

“Oh, well then.” The Brit still looked a bit flustered, but nodded agreeably. “All right then.” Then he shuffled a step toward the door. “Or I could just make myself a cup…”

“You don’t want to get me fired on my first day, do you?” Alfred asked, mock-seriously. “I promise you, I have been trained in how to make a proper cup of tea.” (It wasn’t like Mattie hadn’t made him do it over and over and _over_ again until he got it right.) 

Kirkland’s shoulders were still a bit tense, but he nodded. “If you’ll join me,” he said politely, if a bit stiffly, as if he still wasn’t quite sure of what the ‘rules’ were.

“I don’t drink tea, but I’ll be glad to join you with a cup of coffee. Go ahead and relax, I’ll be back in a few.”

 

When Alfred came back out, properly accessorized tea tray in hand, Arthur was sitting one of the chairs, looking out over the countryside that was visible in the distance above the hedge, and the little signs of tension in his face were finally starting to fade. He looked up, and a surprised smile lit his face when he saw the tea pot and plate of scones on the tray, complete with jam and cream. “I wasn’t expecting a proper tea,” he said. “What a lovely surprise.”

“The scones are home made. Matt – the cousin I told you about – went to one of those Cordon bleu schools, and it’s his recipe; he sent them along as a kind of welcome gift.”

“How kind of him.” Arthur sat up a little straighter. “Actually, I’m a bit of a dab hand with scones as well. Perhaps I could bake him a batch of my own special recipe.”

Alfred, who had been warned by Bonnefoy about Arthur’s ‘dab hand’ in the kitchen, laughed a little nervously. “Ha, that would be awesome, but I’ll bet you’re going to be much too busy writing to have time to bake. And remember, that’s why you’ve got me.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I’m sure you’re right.” Arthur deflated a little, eyebrows lowering in disappointment. 

It was in that moment that Alfred decided he didn’t want to see disappointment on the other man’s face for any reason. The poor guy had been through enough, and if baking some scones would make him happy, then he could damn well bake scones.“But, after you finish your book, there’s nothing to say we can’t celebrate by baking some awesome scones!” (Nothing, except Francis Bonnefoy, but that was a worry for another time.)

Kirkland immediately brightened and hummed happily to himself as he poured a cup of tea and took a scone. The two enjoyed a pleasant tea in the garden, and pretty much demolished Mattie’s plate of scones, which Alfred had to admit, were pretty awesome. He’d have to get Mattie to bake some more; Feliciano could bring them when he came to tend to the garden. He liked seeing that smile on Arthur’s face.

 

When Francis Bonnefoy had contacted their agency regarding this assignment, Alfred just assumed he’d be assisting a writer who locked himself in his office and spent his days pecking away at his laptop. A week had passed, and in that time it seemed as if Arthur Kirkland had done everything _except_ write.

Arthur had been eager to ride on the trails Alfred had told him about, so they spent considerable time riding the horses over the various routes Alfred had mapped out. He’d seen immediately that, while Arthur wasn’t a bad rider, per se, he wasn’t a confident rider, which made him a tense rider. Alfred had already taken Susie out on the various trails so she was familiar with them; none of them were too demanding, so he wasn’t too worried. But even an easy-going horse like Susie took her cues from her rider, so Alfred spent a lot of time riding beside Arthur, offering suggestions and unobtrusively trying to get him to relax. As Arthur gained more confidence in the saddle and on the terrain, this was accomplished, and Alfred could see he was beginning to enjoy himself on their rides; and as a bonus, he was also beginning to relax around Alfred, and their byplay became more natural. So that was time well spent. However, Arthur also seemed to spend a lot of time reading in the garden (when it wasn’t raining) or reading in his room (when it was raining), and going for walks, rain or shine. As far as Alfred could see, he hadn’t spent five minutes writing, unless he was doing it all in his head. 

He’d spoken to Bonnefoy the night Arthur arrived, to assure him he was settled in, and the agent said he’d call him again in a week’s time. That was today, and Alfred wasn’t looking forward to the conversation. Would Bonnefoy think all those riding excursions were ‘distractions’, something he was supposed to prevent? And was it up to him to prod Kirkland into working on his novel? 

Worried, he’d called Mattie last night and told him what was going on. There was a long silence, and then his cousin suggested he was just taking some time to settle in. 

“It took Feliciano less time to put in the entire garden, Mattie.”

“Yeah, well, writing doesn’t work like that, Al.”

Alfred wasn’t a writer. He could program the shit out of computer code and he could hack into just about anything with an electronic pulse, but the mysteries of fictional writing were totally outside his realm of experience. “I thought writers were supposed to, you know, write a thousand words a day or something.”

A gust of a sigh came over the phone. “Some writers do, but it doesn’t work that way for everyone. I’m guessing it doesn’t work that way with Arthur Kirkland.”

“Then you don’t think I should…do anything?”

“Like what?” Matt asked, sounding equal parts amused and alarmed. “Lock him in his office and tell him you won’t let him out until he writes a thousand words?”

Alfred grimaced. “Well, when you put it like that…”

“When Francis Bonnefoy calls, just tell him in the truth. He knows Mr. Kirkland a lot better than you do. For all you know, this may be normal.”

So when his phone signaled the dreaded incoming call, Alfred quickly stepped outside to take the call; Arthur was currently in his room while his laptop was in his study, so Alfred assumed he was doing any number of things that weren’t writing. “Hi, Mr. Bonnefoy,” he said brightly.

After a few exchanged pleasantries, Bonnefoy asked how things were going, and Alfred, after taking a deep breath, told him. But instead of the reaming out he’d expected, he heard a soft snort of amusement. “I suppose it’s nice to know that some things never change.”

“Er…excuse me?”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Jones,” Bonnefoy said dryly, “you are not in any trouble. This is Arthur’s usual method of beginning a new novel. He is like a skier at the top of a slope who just needs a little nudge to get him moving.”

Alfred cleared his throat. “Ah, should I…?”

“Non, that is my job,” Bonnefoy answered, and Alfred could hear the smile in his voice. “I should warn you, however, that once Arthur begins writing, he very effectively forgets about anything else, such as eating and sleeping. _That_ is when your job really begins and when you will begin earning the very generous salary I am paying your firm.” Alfred made a face over the phone at the Frenchman, but was wise enough to say nothing. The agent let the silence linger just long enough for the message to sink in, then continued briskly, “I’ll call again in a week, but if you have any questions or any problems in the meantime, you should call me.”

“I’m sure we won’t have any problems,” Alfred said in his most professional voice. “Don’t worry, Mr. Bonnefoy, I’ll look after Ar – Mr. Kirkland.”

 

Alfred didn’t know what passed between Bonnefoy and Arthur in their phone conversation that evening, but the next day after breakfast (Arthur had insisted on the first morning that Alfred take his breakfast with him, because it would be silly to do otherwise), Arthur settled his empty cup in its saucer and said, “Well. I’ll be in my office today.” He forced a small smile that looked rather strained. “Holiday’s over.”

Alfred nodded. “Your laptop’s all set up, and you’ve got access to the internet in case you want to do research.”

The other man had twitched at the mention of the internet. “Actually,” he said slowly, gaze skittering away from Alfred’s face, “I was wondering…if you would mind doing any research I might need?” 

Alfred broke out into a delighted smile. “Really? I can help you with your book? Dude, I’m _awesome_ at research!”

That brought Arthur’s gaze back, and he smiled a little, tense shoulders relaxing. “That’s settled then. So I won’t need the internet. You can delete it from my laptop, or whatever it is you do for that.”

Alfred’s lips twitched, but he nodded solemnly. “I’ll take care of that right now.”

“All I’ll need is my word processing program and email.”

“Right. I’ll take off the internet and set up your email,” Alfred said, giving him a thumb’s up. Arthur didn’t impress him as the type of guy who would poke around the guts of his laptop, so it would be an easy thing to remove the shortcut to his browser from his desktop and give him an icon directly to his email. Problem solved.

 

Alfred hesitated at the closed study door and took a deep, bracing breath. How could he have ever thought that Arthur Kirkland was shy and retiring? Over the course of the last week, he had often thought back to Bonnefoy’s comment that once Arthur started writing he would really earn his money, and now he knew what the crafty bastard had meant. Arthur Kirkland, he of the pretty eyes, adorable accent, occasional shy stutter and attractive blush, turned into a snarling, snapping Rottweiler when you dared interrupt his writing to drag him away for such mundane tasks as eating a meal and getting a good night’s sleep. It was a knockdown, drag out argument. Every. Single. Time. Alfred shook his head, trying to figure out why he _enjoyed_ that so much. Maybe it was because he thought he was finally meeting the real Arthur Kirkland, not that defeated, depressed, uncertain one he picked up at the airport. This Arthur Kirkland bit back when pushed, cursed (still in an adorable accent), and threw insults at him that Alfred had to look up on Google. But his eyes held a new sparkle (that made them even prettier) and there was a sense of purpose to him that had been missing before. All in all, Alfred decided he liked Arthur Kirkland Mach II even better than the earlier model, even if it did take every grain of patience he possessed to deal with him sometimes. Even more curious, he was beginning to think that Arthur enjoyed their little verbal sparring matches as well: the color rose in his cheeks, his formidable eyebrows performed acrobatics, and he had begun _smirking_. 

Alfred grinned, ready for the next round, and knocked. Then, performing one of his favorite new tricks, he threw open the door without waiting for a reply. “Lunchtime, Artie,” he announced in an overly loud voice. He could hear the key-mash on the keyboard; it was music to his ears.

“It’s _Arthur_ , git,” Kirkland replied through gritted teeth, laboriously tapping the backspace key and scowling at the screen. “How often must I remind you?”

“Until it sinks in, I guess. Don’t know when that’ll be.” He presented the glaring man with a beatific smile. “Hey, the sun is shining, at least for the moment, so I thought we could have lunch outside. That way you can get some fresh air along with your food. How’s that sound?” Alfred asked, bracing himself for an argument.

But to his surprise, Arthur slumped back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. “That actually sounds quite appealing.”

Alfred frowned. “Have you been taking breaks like I told you to?” When Arthur hunched guiltily in his chair, Alfred let out a gusty sigh. “Artie, I told you, staring at a computer screen for hours at a time is going to give you eye strain, and probably a headache. It’s not good for you.”

Arthur flapped a hand at him tiredly. “Yes, you did, and you were right. I hope you’re happy,” he grumbled.

“I’m not happy if you’ve given yourself eyestrain or a headache,” Alfred said quietly.

Arthur looked up at him apologetically. “Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.” He pushed himself to his feet and stretched out his back. Alfred heard it crack and winced in sympathy. “I think after lunch I’ll take a ride. I need to clear out the cobwebs, and a couple of hours in the fresh air should help.”

“It’ll do you good,” Alfred agreed, opening the door to the garden where he’d set up lunch. “Want some company?”

“No, thank you. I’ve hit a bit of a snag in the book and I need to think it out. I’ll just plod along with Susie for an hour or so. We’ll be fine.”

 

Alfred looked out at the pouring rain, winced at another roll of thunder, and checked his watch yet again. Arthur had been gone over two hours. While that wasn’t out of the norm when he wanted a good, long think, it worried him this time due to the weather. He knew Arthur didn’t shy away from rain, but it was cold enough out there to be a real threat if he was soaking wet and didn’t get to shelter and dry clothes soon. 

He chewed his lip, wondering if Arthur remembered his warning about Susie’s skittishness over thunder, and as another loud crack of thunder shook the house, decided abruptly he’d waited long enough. In another couple of hours it would be dark, and he wanted Arthur back and safe long before then. Grabbing his jacket from its hook, he jammed Arthur’s Yankees cap on his head for good measure, and strode out the door.

He’d just gotten the saddle on Liberty when he heard a noise in the doorway to the stable, and he let out a sigh in relief. “Hey, I was just going out to make sure you were okay.” Turning, his grin faltered when he saw Susie standing in the doorway, riderless. “ _Crap_.” He hurried over and took the mare’s trailing reins, checking her over quickly for injuries. “Where’s Arthur, girl?” he murmured, running a hand over her neck. “What happened, did the thunder scare you?” 

Alfred took a deep, calming breath and returned to quickly mount Liberty, keeping Susie’s reins in his hands. He was frantic with worry, and one worst case scenario after another flew through his mind, but he forced himself to focus and remain calm. Okay, Arthur simply took a tumble and was even now making his way back to the house, grumbling and cursing all the way. In no way was he lying out there unconscious, bleeding from a gash on his head, and with numerous broken bones. “Not on my watch, Artie,” he said aloud, grimly. “You hear me? I’m on my way, and you’d better be okay.”

He set out in the direction Arthur had gone. There were three possible routes he could have taken, but Alfred hoped he didn’t have to search all three; with any luck, he’d encounter Arthur – walking back – before he got to the trail head and had to make a decision. But he reached the trail head without meeting Arthur, and stopped, chewing his lip. 

The track leading off to the right was the easiest, level ground, no obstacles, one of Arthur’s favorite trails, he knew, when the writer wanted to think. The middle path stuck to the woods, no place to be during a thunderstorm, and Alfred really hoped he hadn’t taken that one. There was a lot of small game in these woods, and a horse could be spooked by a darting hare or a flushed pheasant, and there was the danger of falling tree branches in a storm as well. The trail to the left was the trickiest; it wound in and out of the trees, and there were hills and a few brooks to cross, along with uneven ground and holes that might trip an unwary horse and rider. 

He decided to head right first, because that was one of Arthur’s favorites, but stopped when Susie tugged on the reins still in his hand. She wanted to go down the path to the left, and if Alfred weren’t worried out of his mind he would have asked her if Timmy had fallen down the well. Instead, he decided to take any help he could get, and turned to the left, anxiously scanning the area ahead. The rain had stopped, but the wind had picked up, and the temperature was dropping quickly. He nudged Liberty into a quicker pace, confident in the horse’s sure-footedness on the uneven terrain. “C’mon, boy, we’ve gotta find Artie.”

After twenty minutes of frantic searching, Alfred was ready to turn around and try another trail, when he suddenly saw movement up ahead in the trees.

“Arthur?” he shouted.

The movement stopped, then suddenly the sodden, muddied form of Arthur Kirkland lurched out of the trees, leaning heavily on a crooked stick that was taller than he was. Susie whinnied happily, and Alfred dug his heels in, sending Liberty quickly forward. He jumped off before the horse had even stopped and ran over to the other man, grabbing him gently by the shoulders. “Are you all right?” he demanded.

Arthur’s face was tight with pain, but he nodded. “I forgot about the thunder,” he said resignedly.

Alfred nodded, his gaze traveling quickly over the other man. “Okay, let’s get you down so I can check you over. Easy does it.”

Arthur dropped the stick he’d been using as a crutch and allowed Alfred to bear his weight as he carefully lowered him the ground so he was supported against a tree. His eyes widened as Alfred carefully framed his face with hands that were shaking slightly and peered into his eyes. It was getting too dark to see if his pupils were uneven, and he asked, “Did you hit your head?” Without waiting for him to answer, he began to gently run his fingers over Arthur’s skull, then stopped abruptly when Arthur winced.

“I wasn’t unconscious.”

“You don’t need to be unconscious,” Alfred murmured, feeling a little lump on the back of Arthur’s head. “Do you have any dizziness or double vision?”

“No,” Arthur said steadily, as if trying to reassure him. “I’m fine, really. But I landed on my ankle wrong. I think I may have sprained it.”

“Which ankle?”

“Right. I’m sure it’s not broken, but I can feel it swelling in my boot.”

“Yeah, look, I know that’s painful, but we’re going to leave that boot on until we get back to the house. It’ll help keep it stable.” Alfred sat back on his heels, finally allowing himself to let out a long breath of relief, looking down to where his hand was somehow gripping Arthur’s wrist. “Had me worried,” he said with a tight smile.

“Sorry,” Arthur whispered, and then Alfred suddenly realized the other man was shaking. 

“You’re chilled to the bone,” he realized suddenly, cursing himself for not realizing it sooner. Quickly, he shrugged out of his jacket. “Here, let’s get you into this.” Carefully, he guided Arthur’s trembling arms into the leather coat, then zipped it closed, raising the zipper until it was just under Arthur’s chin, wrapping him up as warmly as he could. When that was done, he looked at him. “Do you think you can ride?”

“Yes, of course.” He reached out and wrapped cold fingers around Alfred’s wrist. “I very sorry I worried you, Alfred,” he said in a gentle, reassuring voice, “but I’m fine, I promise.”

Alfred flashed him a strained smile. “Of course you are. Okay,” he got to his feet and leaned down. “Just relax and let me do all the work, okay?” Without waiting for his response, Alfred effortlessly lifted the other man to his feet and wrapped Arthur’s arm over his shoulders. “Don’t put any weight on that foot.”

As they made their way to the horses, Alfred said casually, “I’m going to put you on Liberty.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea –”

“It’ll be fine,” Alfred assured him. “Susie’s still a little edgy and I don’t want her to spook. Liberty will be a lot steadier for you, and he’ll just follow me. Plus,” he stopped them at Liberty’s side, where the horse was waiting patiently, “I’ve got the western saddle on him, so if you feel unsteady or dizzy or anything, you can just hang onto the horn. Here’s I’ll give you a boost up.”

Once Arthur was settled solidly in the saddle, Alfred quickly mounted Susie and led them back home at a quick, but steady pace. He had to keep correcting Susie, as she tried to keep turning her head back to where her favorite human was riding another horse. Arthur was quiet on the journey, but Alfred kept up a steady stream of chatter in an effort to reassure them both.

Once they reached home, Alfred stopped the horses right in front of the house, secured them both by tying their reins around a gate post, and then stood at Susie’s side and looked up at Arthur. “Um, don’t be angry, okay?” he asked sheepishly.

“About what?” Arthur asked, confused.

Alfred just shot him an apologetic smile as he helped ease him down from the horse’s back. Before Arthur’s bad leg managed to touch the ground, Alfred easily scooped him up in his arms and strode into the house. “Sorry,” he murmured as Arthur squawked in surprise, “but this is the quickest way to get you where he need to go.” He winced as Arthur gave him a rather hard thump on the shoulder, but the Brit clamped his mouth shut and looked away with a disgruntled “Hmmph”.

Alfred didn’t stop or slow down until they were upstairs and in the bathroom where he finally settled Arthur on the lid of the toilet. 

“Was that really necessary?” Arthur asked, eyebrows furrowed in disapproval.

“Until we find out how bad your ankle is, yeah, it really was.” His fingers were busy easing down the zipper of Arthur’s right boot. “Okay, this is going to hurt,” he warned, as he tried to work off the boot. It wasn’t easy: the boot was wet, the socks were damp, and the ankle was swollen. He could hear Arthur biting back a whimper, and breathed, “Sorry, sorry.”

Finally the boot was off and Arthur choked out, “Bloody hell!”

“Okay, worst is over.” Alfred flashed him an encouraging smile, then gently peeled off the damp sock and got his first look at the damaged ankle. He rolled up the jeans a bit to get a better look, then ran careful fingers over the bruised, swollen flesh. He froze when Arthur started, but when he looked up at him, Arthur had turned his face away, and his cheeks were scarlet. Alfred hoped he wasn’t coming down with a fever on top of everything else. Frowning, he reached up and placed the back of his hand against Arthur’s forehead, and the man flinched so hard he nearly fell off his seat.

“What – what are you doing?” he stuttered, eyes wide.

“Checking for fever,” Alfred explained, stubbornly pressing his hand once again against his forehead. “You look a little flushed.”

Arthur averted his gaze again, blinking very fast. “Oh. Oh, well…” He cleared his throat. “That’s all right then. I’m fine.”

Alfred finally sat back on his heels, smiling up at Arthur in relief. “Yeah, I think you are. You don’t have a fever, and you don’t seem to have any broken bones; the ankle’s sprained, but it should be fine in a few days.” He got to his feet. “I need to take care of the horses, and you need to get out of those clothes and into a hot shower. You’re chilled to the bone.” He hesitated, feeling his own face heat up as he waved a hand at Arthur’s clothes. “Do you need any…?”

“No!” Arthur answered immediately, and it sounded like a yelp. He cleared his throat again, then continued in a calmer voice, “No, please take care of Susie and Liberty; I’ll be fine.”

Alfred nodded. “I’ll get you some clothes.” It only took a little rummaging around in Arthur’s bureau to find what he needed, and he returned with a change of underwear, a pair of soft sweats and a long-sleeved t-shirt. Then he had a thought and ran back downstairs. When he returned, he was carrying one of the outside chairs, and flashed a smile at a perplexed Arthur. “I’ll put this in the shower and then you can sit down to stay off that ankle.” That done, he turned around and said, “Once I’m back in we’ll take care of that ankle properly. Be careful with it and try not to put too much weight on it.” He waited for Arthur to nod his understanding, then turned and left the bathroom.

 

When Alfred returned upstairs, he was carrying a tray laden with first aid supplies and a cup of hot chocolate. Arthur was propped up against the headboard of his bed, his injured foot gingerly resting on a pillow. 

“Feel better?”

“Well, I’m not chilled any longer, but my ankle is throbbing rather insistently,” Arthur replied, and Alfred saw immediately his face was tight with pain.

Setting the heavily laden tray down on the bedside table, Alfred handed him a glass of water and held up a bottle. “Ibuprofen,” he explained, and waited for Arthur to hold out his hand. “It’ll take the edge off.” He waited until Arthur dutifully took the two pills he gave him, then adjusted the shade of the bedside lamp to shine more light on them, and leaned closer, gently taking Arthur’s face in his hands.

Arthur’s eyes went comically wide and he froze. “What are you doing?”

“Just checking your eyes now that we have proper light,” Alfred answered absently, staring into his eyes. It only took him a moment to verify that Arthur’s pupils were equal size, but he found himself staring into the green depths of his eyes, his thumb apparently moving of its own accord to lightly brush over a bruise on Arthur’s right cheek. Where he found…freckles. Oh my god, Artie had _freckles_. Adorable freckles. How had he not noticed that before? Then he firmly brought himself back to business. “Got a bit of a bruise there,” he murmured.

Arthur was staring at him, their faces inches apart, as if mesmerized. “Doesn’t hurt,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Good.” 

Suddenly, as if snapping out of a trance, both jerked back and Alfred’s hands fell away from the other man’s face. “Well,” Alfred said in an overly loud voice, “let’s see to that ankle.” His own face felt hot as he turned to the tray and busied himself with the first aid supplies before remembering the hot chocolate. “Here you go, should help you warm up.”

Arthur accepted the cup and wrapped his hands around it, avoiding Alfred’s gaze. “Thanks.”

Once he had the first aid supplies laid out, Alfred was back in familiar territory. “We’re going to treat this sprain with R.I.C.E.”

Arthur lowered the cup and blinked at him, bewildered. “Rice? I’ve never heard of eating rice to treat a sprain.”

Alfred grinned cheekily. “R-I-C-E – rest, ice, compression and elevation. First thing we’re going to do is put some ice on it. Ready?” Arthur nodded uncertainly, and Alfred carefully applied one icepack under the ankle and one on top of it. 

The Brit flinched and hissed, but Alfred firmly kept his leg still until Arthur suddenly relaxed back into the pillows propping him up. “Bloody hell, that feels marvelous,” he moaned.

“Doesn’t it? It takes a few seconds, but it really does take the pain out.”

Arthur rolled his head on the pillows to study Alfred. “Are you some kind of medic or something?"

“Nope, no kind of medic, although all of us at the agency have taken first aid training, and we’re all CPR and AED certified.” When Arthur raised his eyebrows questioningly, Alfred explained, “An AED is an automated external defibrillator.”

“Oh, one of those machines that can do CPR for you?”

“Something like that. They send shocks to the heart. Anyhow, we’re all trained.” He rearranged one of the icepacks. “But this comes from firsthand experience. I did sports all through school and college. Had my share of sprains, I can tell you.”

“Let me guess: you were the football quarterback.”

“Guilty as charged.”

Arthur shook his head in mock dismay. “Now, that’s just too cliché.”

“That’s me,” Alfred said cheerfully. “The all-American cliché.”

Thanks to the pills, the hot chocolate and the fact that he was finally out of pain and warm, Arthur was starting to look relaxed and drowsy. It was a good look for him, Alfred thought, then immediately mentally smacked himself (since Mattie wasn’t here to do it for him) for allowing his mind to go there. “And how did an all-American cliché come to own a temp agency in England?” As soon as he asked the question, Arthur’s mouth widened in a yawn.

“I’ll tell you all about it,” Alfred promised, amused, when you can stay awake.” He took the icepacks away and Arthur whined a protest. “Can’t let them on too long. Ideally, we’d apply ice every couple of hours, but we won’t be able to do that with you asleep. We’ll wrap it up tonight, and then tomorrow see how it looks and probably go back to the ice and elevation. But no walks or no riding for you for a few days.”

“I really am sorry,” Arthur said contritely. “Is Susie all right?”

Alfred nodded as he readied the ace bandage. “She’s fine. Didn’t you see how she kept trying to turn around to see why you were riding another horse? She was jealous,” he teased. 

“No need for her to be jealous; I certainly won’t be cheating on her with Liberty. I’m afraid he’s a bit out of my league.”

“He can be a handful,” Alfred agreed. “Okay, here we go. This might seem a little uncomfortable at first, but it’ll help with the swelling.” Settling himself on the bed comfortably, he pushed up the soft material of Arthur’s sweatpants until it was out of the way, then gently lifted his leg into his lap. Arthur didn’t flinch this time, but he did tense up. “Sorry, I’m trying not to hurt you.”

“You’re not hurting me,” Arthur said immediately, his voice hoarse.

Alfred glanced up, wondering why his throat felt so tight. Maybe _he_ was coming down with a cold. He took his time wrapping the ankle, and refused to think about his reasons for that, but finally it was done, and when he looked up again, Arthur’s eyes were closed, and there was a faint smile on his lips. Alfred gently laid the wrapped leg back on the pillow, sat there for a moment too long, just looking, then roused himself to carefully cover the man, turn off the light, and leave the room.

Later, as he sat downstairs in the living room flipping listlessly through channels on the TV and mindlessly shoving crisps (they were totally potato chips, no matter what the bag said) into his mouth, he tried not to think about how Mattie was going to totally _kill_ him. And Francis Bonnefoy, he thought glumly, probably wouldn’t be far behind.

 

When Arthur woke the next morning, he was immediately aware of three discomforts: a full bladder, an empty stomach, and a twinging ankle. He grimaced as he pushed himself up and thought about hobbling to the bathroom, but that was indeed what he was going to have to do, and without delay. But when he eased himself to sit at the side of the bed, he blinked at the pair of crutches leaning against his nightstand, within easy reach. 

“How in the bloody hell did he…?” Well, Alfred did say he and his agency could handle anything, so apparently making a pair of crutches appear in the middle of the night wasn’t beyond his capabilities. Arthur retrieved the crutches, placed them awkwardly under his shoulders, then gingerly eased himself to his feet. He took a few moments to stand there, getting used to them; well, that wasn’t so bad, was it? He’d never been on crutches before, but he could do this. But then he found he was frozen; he had no idea how to proceed: did he swing the crutches out in front of him, or did he take a step on his good foot first, or …?

“Artie?” There was a perfunctory knock on his door before it swung open to reveal an anxious looking Alfred. “Oh, whoa, don’t move. I wanted to be here before you tried that.” Immediately, Alfred crossed the room to stand by him, holding a steadying hand out almost, but not quite, touching Arthur. “There’s an art to walking with those things.”

“Well, it’s an art I’m going to have to learn quite quickly,” he said tightly. “I need to take a piss.”

“Ha, ha, okay. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’re a quick learner.”

In short order, Alfred corrected his stance, realigned the crutches, and gave him clear instructions on how to proceed. To his surprise, Alfred was a very good teacher, and soon Arthur was hobbling – a little wobbly, but on his own – to the bathroom. By the time he came out, he’d decided since he obviously wasn’t going anywhere today, other than sitting with his laptop in his lap, he wasn’t going to bother to change out of his sweatpants and shirt. All he did was pause at his chest of drawers, with Alfred standing by to steady him in case he toppled, and pulled out a long sleeved jumper, one that Francis had picked out for him. It was a soft green cashmere, just a little too big for him in his opinion, and he slipped it over his head. The sound of his stomach rumbling could probably be heard by the horses in the stable.

“You missed dinner last night,” Alfred said apologetically. “I thought it was better to let you sleep instead of waking you up to eat.”

“That was a good decision,” Arthur agreed. He’d slept the night through and felt much better for it, except for the constant twinge in that ankle. “But right now I could murder a cup of tea and some eggs.”

“How about bacon, eggs, toast and waffles?”

“Blimey, you’ve been busy,” Arthur said, surprised.

“I knew you’d be hungry.” The other man looked bright-eyed and chipper as always, and his eyes looked very, very blue behind his glasses. He was still standing close, hovering in case Arthur wobbled, and Arthur could smell a hint of his spicy aftershave. 

Under other circumstances, Arthur would have taken a step away to preserve his personal space bubble, but he knew if he did, Alfred would just follow to make sure he didn’t fall. To break the suddenly awkward silence between them, Arthur cleared his throat and looked down at the crutches still supporting him. “Where did you manage to find these in the middle of the night?”

Alfred flashed his usual bright grin. “I told you, our agency is the best.” When Arthur continued to look at him expectantly, the American laughed sheepishly, and he rubbed the back of his head. “Ah, actually, they’re mine. Twisted my knee really bad when I fell down the steps last year – long, stupid story – and I called Mattie last night. He had them couriered over.

“Very impressive,” Arthur told him solemnly.

“Very _handy_ ,” Alfred corrected with a shrug. “You’re lucky I’m so clumsy.”

He might use any variety of adjectives to describe Alfred and his athletic body, but that wouldn’t be one of them, Arthur mused. “Well, however it came to be, I’m very grateful. At least I can get around now.”

“Yeah, well, they’re for when you _have_ to get around. I’m afraid, you’re stuck on the sofa otherwise, with your ankle propped up.” When Arthur opened his mouth to protest, Alfred shook his head stubbornly. “That non-negotiable,” he said firmly. “Sprains can be tricky things, and the quickest way to get back on your feet is to take it easy for a few days.”

Arthur really wasn’t expecting anything else, but he felt he had to put up a bit of a fight anyhow. “Very well,” he sighed. Then he looked at the bedroom door and chewed his lower lip for a moment. “But how do I get downstairs?”

“You’ve got two options,” Alfred replied, much too cheerfully. “There’s a way to go down steps with crutches, and I can show you; it’s a little scary, but I’ll be with you every step of the way, so I can promise you, you won’t fall. Or –” He waggled his eyebrows in a ridiculous manner. “We can handle it like we did last night.”

“You mean carry me like a bloody swooning Victorian virgin?” Arthur growled. “I’ll walk.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Alfred said blandly, but Arthur thought he saw a flicker of disappointment on his face, an expression of, _You can’t blame a guy for trying_. Then he blinked, and the American’s face was once again smooth and clear. “Well, come on, and let me show you how it’s done then.”

 

Alfred wasn’t kidding when he said going down stairs on crutches was a little scary, Arthur thought, once he was safely on the sofa with his foot propped on a hassock and ice packs wrapped around his ankle. But he felt like he’d accomplished something even if Alfred had hovered like a mother hen the whole way down so that there was no way he could take a tumble. He’d learned more about ‘crutch etiquette’ than he ever wanted to know, including how to move through doorways, go up and down stairs, and the proper way of getting up and sitting down. The only upside that Arthur could reckon was that if he ever needed a character in one of his books to sprain an ankle or use crutches, he’d already done the research first hand.

“Here we go.”

Arthur was pulled out of his thoughts as Alfred walked into the sitting room and handed him a fully laden breakfast tray. Normally, a food offering of this magnitude would have him giving Alfred a tongue-lashing about wasted food, but this time he settled the tray on his legs and tucked in. 

Alfred settled on the sofa with a tray loaded with even more food, and he picked up a fork with one hand and the TV remote with the other. “Mind if we watch a morning show while we eat? I usually check out the news and stuff most days.”

His mouth full, Arthur indicated his acquiescence with a wave of his hand, and Alfred settled on a channel and sat back. Arthur’s mind was still on the scene he’d been working on in his book, frowning to himself as he chewed on a strip of crisp bacon; for some reason it wasn’t flowing the way he should, he wasn’t getting the _feel_ of the location. Every bloody time he stalled on this book or stumbled on a scene, all his insecurities came flooding back. All he could think of was that he was writing another novel that would turn out to be unpublishable and he’d ruin not only his own reputation, but Francis’s as well.

As the hard news morphed into entertainment news, he didn’t really register the segue until Alfred’s mug clattered to his tray and he heard a fierce, whispered, “Fuck!” That brought his head up just in time to see Antonio’s handsome face on the screen, followed by a video clip of him and his blonde companion holding hands and strolling the streets of Rome, smiling happily for the cameras. A chirpy voiceover announced the blissful couple were now touring the romantic city of Rome, while the whereabouts of novelist Arthur –”

Alfred fumbled for the remote, then stabbed viciously at it and the TV screen went dark, leaving them in silence. 

Arthur realized he had frozen, his silverware still poised above his plate, and somehow time had stopped around him. 

“Artie – Arthur, I’m so, so sorry.” Alfred was leaning toward him, one hand clutching his hair in a way that must have been painful. “I had no idea – I didn’t think –”

Very carefully, Arthur replaced his utensils on his plate with a soft clink, and daintily wiped his mouth with his napkin before placing it neatly on the tray. “Don’t distress yourself, Alfred,” he said briskly. “It wasn’t your fault. Now, if you’d please bring my tea into my study, I need to get back to work. The armchair in there is quite comfortable, and I can work there.”

Alfred reached for his tray, then hesitated. “Are you sure you don’t want to finish your breakfast?”

“I think I’ve had enough. It was very good, thank you, but I’ll just go to my study now, and I’d appreciate it if you’d help me get set up.”

“Sure thing, absolutely,” Alfred agreed, but he sounded more subdued than Arthur had ever heard him, and quickly removed the cold packs from his ankle, then took his tray and disappeared into the kitchen while Arthur grabbed his crutches and made his way into his study, a little more clumsily than his previous attempts.

It was pouring rain, and the garden, for all its color, looked dreary and depressing. Suited his mood perfectly, Arthur thought bitterly as he lowered himself into his chair. He dropped the crutches by the side of the chair, then lowered his head into his hands, giving himself over to a moment of self-pity. He’d thought it was getting better, that it wouldn’t hurt so much anymore; but that one glimpse of Tonio’s handsome smiling face brought it all back and felt like a hot knife slipped straight into his heart. The sound of unnecessarily loud footsteps approaching brought Arthur’s head up sharply. He wondered how long Alfred had been standing in the doorway observing his mini-breakdown. He wondered if he should warn Alfred to get used to them as there may be more before the year was up. Then he silently told himself to buck up and straightened his spine as Alfred pulled a hassock over and sat down in front of him.

“Need to wrap that ankle again,” he said in a quiet voice, not looking up at him. When he was settled, he once again took Arthur’s ankle and rested it on his knees. Like last night, he eased the trouser leg out of the way, examined the bruised flesh, and then began to wrap it. Alfred had big, strong-looking hands, the kind of hands that looked like they would wield a hammer or an axe with ridiculous ease and complete competence; but those hands were incredibly gentle as they examined his ankle. The tip of a pink tongue peeked out of one corner of his mouth, but he remained silent, engrossed in his task. Arthur took the opportunity to look his fill while Alfred’s concentration was elsewhere. He was certainly a handsome lad, and his face was usually alight with laughter or good humor. At first, he’d been somewhat annoyed at how loud the American was, but now he found he’d become used to it and even looked forward to hearing his boisterous, cheerful voice and seeing his sunny smile. And, he admitted to himself, one could get lost in those crystal-clear blue eyes if one wasn’t careful. He wondered suddenly if Alfred had a girlfriend. He must have, he realized; someone like him must have the ladies buzzing around him like bees to honey. The thought depressed him a little, although he quickly admonished himself for it.

When Alfred finished wrapping his ankle, he gave a little nod of approval, then said, “Today we’ll put ice on it every couple of hours and then see how it looks tomorrow.”

“All right,” Arthur said quietly, not sure what else to say.

Still not looking at him, the other man got to his feet and quickly had the area around the chair set up with everything he might need within easy reach. He’d moved a little table over to one side and here he placed Arthur’s notes and the research he’d done at Arthur’s request; on the other side was the tea table with a pot of fresh tea and some biscuits. Lastly, he brought over Arthur’s laptop.

When all was settled, he turned to leave. “I’ll be checking on you, but if you need anything, just give a call, okay?” 

But before he could leave, Arthur reached out and caught the edge of his sleeve, and Alfred froze. “Alfred,” he said quietly, “stop beating yourself up. It wasn’t your fault.”

The broad shoulders rose and fell in a helpless shrug. “Kind’a feels like it was.”

“Well, it wasn’t,” Arthur said firmly. “Let’s put the blame where it deserves to go, shall we?”

Alfred turned back then and gave him a long look. “The guy’s a douchebag, Artie.”

Arthur nodded, a wry smile touching his lips. “So I discovered.” Then he sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I was just…taken by surprise. I wasn’t expecting it, and,” he confessed softly, “I wasn’t expecting it to still hurt that much.”

“I don’t think there’s any time limit on how long something like that hurts.”

Arthur straightened, and said briskly, “I’m sure you’re right. In any event, please stop stressing yourself over it. I’m fine.”

After a moment, Alfred nodded, and produced a smile that wasn’t up to his usual standards. “Okay.” 

“Oh, Alfred.” The other man stopped again and looked back enquiringly. “You haven’t taken any time off since we’ve been here. Don’t you need to, I don’t know, see to your agency or anything?”

They were on safer ground here apparently, because Alfred seemed to relax. “I talk to Mattie nearly every day, and if we need to go over anything, we Skype. It’s all cool.”

“Ah, all right then.” Arthur looked down at his laptop and tried to look like he was concentrating on the display. “But, what about social engagements?”

“Social engagements? You mean, like parties?”

“Parties, or…dates. Don’t you have, I don’t know, a girlfriend you should be paying attention to?”

“Girlfriend?” It was the amused tone of his voice that brought Arthur’s head up. “I don’t swing that way, Artie. And, before you ask, there isn’t anyone right now, so I don’t need any time off, but thanks for the offer.”

Arthur’s mouth was dry, but he said, “But if you should need any time off –”

“I’ll be sure to ask,” Alfred told him with a smile that was nearly back to normal, and left the room.

After he was gone, Arthur dropped his head back against the cushioned chair back. Well, _fuck_. He wished he could beat his head against the wall, or perhaps jump up and down a few times on his sprained ankle. Why, why, why _ever_ did he ask that question? Because now he knew the answer and the possibilities… He brought his fist down hard on the arm of the chair. There were no possibilities, he thought savagely. Hadn’t that been proven to him enough in the past? He just had one partner cheat on him and abandon him at the altar. Was he so eager to prove to himself yet again that he wasn’t worthy of that kind of love? And, yes, Alfred Jones was a gorgeous man with a sparkling personality and a kind heart. But, he was being paid to be kind and attentive, wasn’t he? He certainly wasn’t here by choice; he was here because his agency was being paid for him to be here.

Mouth set in a grim, determined line, he opened up his draft and tried to settle down to work.

 

Arthur worked steadily that day, interrupted by Alfred for meals, when it was time to apply a cold pack to his ankle, and whenever Alfred thought he needed a break from staring at a laptop screen. They took dinner in the sitting room in front of the switched-off TV, and once Alfred had cleared away the dinner dishes, he came back in and stood beside the TV, a bright smile on his face.

“Would you like to watch a movie?”

“A film?” Arthur eyed the TV mistrustfully. “I’m not sure…”

“DVDs,” Alfred explained quickly. “We’ve got a ton of ‘em here. We weren’t sure what you liked, so everyone kind of pitched in from their own collection and we’ve got all kinds.” To prove the point, he walked over to a cabinet along the wall and opened the doors. Inside were indeed shelves of DVD cases. “Would you like to hear what we’ve got?”

A film with Alfred? Well, he wasn’t going to do any more writing tonight, and the lad looked so hopeful… “Yes, of course.”

The boxes were apparently separated into collections, and Alfred waved at each one like a magician presenting a new trick. “We’ve got a selection of Disney, courtesy of Feli.”

Arthur had met Feliciano Vargas when he came to tend the garden, and the two had spent a pleasant hour or two discussing flowers. He was a cheerful young man, if a bit excitable, and seemed the type to enjoy Disney films. Truth be told, Arthur rather enjoyed a few of them himself. He wondered if they had _101 Dalmatians_. The _original_ , of course.

“A bunch of vintage James Bond and espionage films from Ludwig, our security guy.” Arthur sat up and leaned to get a better look at the mention of Bond, James Bond. It had been quite some time since he’d seen some of those grand old villains, like Oddjob, Jaws and Goldfinger. “Oh, and some World War Two movies, like _The Great Escape_ –”

“Don’t you dare,” Arthur interrupted sharply. “That film is utter bollocks. If you really want to know about _British_ airmen escapes from P.O.W. camps, I can recommend a few excellent books on the subject, but most certainly not that film.” He sank back into the sofa, arms folded, and sneered, “Yanks on motorcycles indeed.”

Alfred threw him an amused look but quickly moved on to the next collection. “Heh. These are from Mattie; my brother’s kind of a romcom fan. Oh, here’s one you might like: _Love Actually_.”

“Ha! Hugh Grant as Prime Minister? I think not.”

“Oh-kay. Well, how about _Notting Hill_? That’s set in London…” Alfred trailed off as Arthur aimed his formidable lowered brows in his direction. He practiced that look in the mirror and used it to good effect against interviewers asking particularly stupid questions, so he knew it had the power to stop someone in their tracks. Alfred peered a little closer at the boxes, “Ah, _Four Weddings and…_ wow, Mattie must really have a thing for Hugh Grant, huh? I won’t even mention the _Twilight_ movies. All of them. Geez, Mattie, you’re killing me here. Well, let’s see, hey, there’s _Camelot_ …”

Arthur sniffed, but allowed, “ _Camelot_ is acceptable.” But inside, he was cheering, and ‘I Wonder What the King is Doing Tonight’ immediately started playing in his head.

“All right then, we probably won’t be spending much time on the romcoms, huh? I have a whole bunch of horror movies, but Mattie wouldn’t let me bring them.” He pouted. “He said they weren’t ‘appropriate’, whatever that means. Yet, _Twilight_ is?” he scoffed, rolling his eyes. He had apparently saved the best for last, because he waved at a collection of colorful boxes and announced, “And these are mine. All the best super hero movies! We’ve got the _Superman_ collection, the _Batman_ collection, the _Spiderman_ collection, _Iron Man, Thor, The Avengers_ , and my personal favorite, _Captain America_!”

Alfred seemed so genuinely proud of his collection that Arthur had to work very hard not to show how utterly appalled he was. 

Alfred clapped his hands together. “So, see anything you like? You get to pick the first one.”

Arthur peered over at the shelves. If film night became a regular occurrence, he knew he’d be seeing more super hero films than he ever cared to, so he went with a safe choice, something he knew he’d enjoy. “How about Goldfinger?”

Alfred grinned, obviously pleased. “Oddjob it is.”

Good. It sounded like Alfred was a bit of a Bond aficionado as well.

The American made a real production of it, insisting on making popcorn and bringing in drinks, although Arthur asked for only water. Then they settled down, the lights dimmed, and watched the film. Sitting there on the sofa with Alfred right beside him, Arthur thought longingly how he wished it were an actual date in an actual cinema. He thought Alfred would be a very attentive date, someone who would open doors for the person he was with and make sure they were having a good time. He didn’t think there was anything fake or phony about Alfred F. Jones; unlike Antonio, Alfred’s charm was honest and natural. Then he stifled his sigh, determinedly forcing those thoughts from his mind, and paid attention to Sean Connery instead.

 

Alfred whistled tunelessly as he checked his email, his laptop set up on the kitchen table. Taking a fortifying gulp of fresh coffee, he breezed efficiently through his in-box, replying, deleting, archiving, forwarding as it was warranted. When he finished, he served himself another cup of coffee and settled back into the chair, this time just resting. And thinking. 

Movie night had become a regular thing now; they watched DVDs three or four times a week, each taking a turn to pick the movie. He’d snored through _Camelot_ and Arthur had bitched through _Batman and Robin_ , but that was all part of the fun. He kind of enjoyed Arthur’s bitching, and Arthur, for his part, took great pleasure in elbowing him quite sharply or flicking popcorn at him if he nodded off. In his head, Alfred had started thinking of them as Date Nights, and he really had to stop doing that because last night he’d nearly said it out loud, and wouldn’t that have really messed things up? He and Arthur had come so far from where they had begun. Arthur felt comfortable enough around him now to be himself, in all his prickly glory, and Alfred didn’t want to do anything to change that. 

He grinned suddenly as he remembered last week when Arthur had approached him one afternoon. He was twisting his hands in front of him as if he didn’t know what to do with them, and he didn’t make eye contact with Alfred as he asked him if he’d like to join him on a ride. “I don’t need the company, of course, but if you’d like to…I mean, I’m sure Liberty could use the exercise…but it’s all right if you don’t want to, I’m sure you have other things you’d rather be doing, so I’ll just go by myself.” Alfred had laughed and said he’d love to go riding with him, and Arthur’s cheeks had turned red, but he looked genuinely happy. Then he’d immediately turned away and told Alfred to get a move on then if he wanted to go riding. Honestly, how would anyone _not _i > find that absolutely adorable?__

__Alfred sighed and stared at his screensaver. Against all odds they’d actually become friends, a first for him with any client. Oh, he tried to get along with everyone, no matter how big an asshole they were (and in the specialist services they offered, they ended up working for a lot of assholes), but this was different. And not only was it different, it was against the Rules._ _

__There were two Rules at their agency. Both of them had been written by Alfred:_ _

___The Client shall always be satisfied.  
You shall not get involved with the Client. _ _ _

__He’d written the fucking Rule himself and all but carved it in stone. Their agency survived and thrived on their reputation, and both he and Mattie drummed it into the heads of their specialists that they couldn’t afford romantic entanglements or messy break-ups with Clients. So the rule was hands-off, no exceptions. So far, no one had broken that rule. Until now. He still hadn’t told Mattie that he was afraid he was falling in love with Arthur. What he should do, of course, was what he expected any of their employees to do in that situation: report it, allow themselves to be removed from the assignment and replaced. But he couldn’t do that to Arthur. It wasn’t Arthur’s fault he’d screwed up, and he honestly couldn’t bear the thought of making him start over with someone new, a stranger. For all his prickliness and bluster, he realized that Arthur was basically a shy man who didn’t trust easily, and he knew if he broke that trust, he wouldn’t be given a second chance. And he refused to risk the loss of that friendship._ _

__“Alfred.”_ _

__Startled out of his thoughts, Alfred jerked his head up to see that Arthur was standing in the kitchen, and wondered how long he’d been there. He flashed a grin, “Hey, Artie.”_ _

__Arthur wasn’t twisting his hands this time, he looked calm and determined. “I need to go to the White Cliffs,” he announced without preamble._ _

__Alfred blinked. “As in, of Dover?”_ _

__“Those are the ones,” Arthur said briskly. “You need to take me there. I’d like to go tomorrow.”_ _

__“Um, sure, okay.” Alfred was already pulling up information on his laptop, calculating the driving time, and seeing it would be an easy run. “Can I ask why?” Arthur hadn’t left the premises since they moved in here, and he wondered if he was getting stir crazy._ _

__“Yes, you _may_.” Arthur corrected him every single time. Of course Alfred knew proper grammar; he just enjoyed poking at the grammar-Nazi. “I’m working on a section of the book and the White Cliffs are the setting.” Before Alfred could open his mouth, he held up a hand. “The research you gave me was first-rate, Alfred, but I need more. I’ve never been there before, and I need to…” He waved a hand in a show of frustration. “I need to feel the gravel under my feet, I need to know how the air smells, I need to hear the seabirds.”_ _

__Alfred nodded readily. “It’s a writer thing. Got it.” He tilted his head, chewing on his lip. “There’s the security part, of course,” he said slowly._ _

__“I doubt there will be many paparazzi in Dover,” Arthur said dryly._ _

__“No, probably not,” Alfred agreed easily, “but we’ll take precautions anyhow.” He’d call Mattie tonight to let him know the plans and talk to Ludwig and ask if he foresaw any problems. “So,” he stood up, clapping his hands together, “field trip tomorrow!”_ _

__Arthur looked apologetic. “I’m sure it’s been quite boring for you all this time, only going into the village now and then for supplies.”_ _

__“Nah, it’s been fine. But it’ll be nice to get out. I’ve never been there either, and the Met actually says we should have a few dry days ahead.” He slid his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels. “If you’re done for the day, how about a little ride before dinner?”_ _

__Arthur looked surprised, then pleased. “Yes, that would be very nice, Alfred.” And this time his eyes didn’t slide away from Alfred’s._ _

__

__Arthur settled back into the comfortable passenger seat of the motorcar and enjoyed the pleasant passing scenery. He’d always loved the countryside of England. The last time he’d been in a motorcar with Alfred, he’d slept most of the way. But now he could see that Alfred was a competent, confident driver, and he relaxed, his head resting on the padded headrest._ _

__He rolled his head to look at Alfred, who was wearing aviator sunglasses and a leather jacket and looking, frankly, quite dashing. He himself was dressed much as he had been upon his arrival in England, with his baseball cap in his lap for use later, and the addition of delicate gold toned wire frames with plain glass as lenses. Apparently they had been the suggestion of the agency’s security person. Arthur had wrinkled his nose when he looked in the mirror, thinking they made him look downright frumpy, and Alfred had been silent for a long time, just staring at him with a strange look on his face until Arthur snapped at him. Then he’d jumped and laughed a little oddly and assured him he looked fine and they had to leave now, so get a move on. The whole exchange hadn’t made any sense at all._ _

__“So, Alfred, you told me once you’d tell me how you came to set up a business in England.”_ _

__Alfred glanced at him, then returned his attention to the motorway. “Okay, but I’ve got to warn it, it’s not very interesting.”_ _

__“I don’t mind, and I’d like to hear.” He considered it for a moment. “I think I know more about the people you work with because of what you’ve told me, than I know about you.”_ _

__“Okay,” Alfred said cheerfully, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”_ _

__So Alfred launched into a rather complicated story about his family and about how he and Matthew Williams had been raised as cousins and only discovered once Alfred’s mother died a few years ago that they were, in fact, half-brothers._ _

__Arthur gaped at him. “But you’ve always called him your cousin when you speak of him.”_ _

__“Yeah, I know. It’s…it was really weird finding out, you know? I mean, we spent our whole childhood and up through college thinking we were cousins. Mattie lived in Canada and I lived in New York. We visited each other sometimes during the summer and a couple of times I spent Christmas vacation with him and we went skiing. Then we ended up at the same college for a few semesters until I transferred; we eventually managed to room together and got to know each other even better. I really do love him like a brother, I’d do anything for him. Hell, I’d give him a kidney if he needed it. But we decided just to keep up the pretense of cousins. It beats trying to deal with our asshole of a father, and anyhow, we know the truth.”_ _

__Arthur was silent for a long moment, then said softly, “Thank you for telling me, Alfred.”_ _

__Alfred shot him a grin that was softer than his usual flash-bang of a smile. “I don’t mind telling you, Artie.” Then he continued in a more matter-of-fact tone. “Anyhow, Mattie got involved with this British guy he met at college who had an idea of opening up a temp help agency in London. So Mattie pulled up stakes and moved over here, ready to make a go of it.” He sighed. “Mattie’s good at a lot of things, but the business side of a business isn’t one of them. Before long the agency was in trouble, and his partner took off for parts unknown, taking what little money they had with him. When he called me, he wasn’t asking me to help, he just needed someone to talk to, you know. But, I had a new brother in need and a shiny new Masters in Business Administration, so it seemed logical. So I packed up and moved over here, and we set about turning the agency around.” He shrugged. “Mattie’s got talents I don’t have, and I have talents he doesn’t have, and it just all came together. We now have a business that has a good reputation and a solid balance sheet.” Arthur could see a faint smile playing at his lips as he concluded in a voice that could only be termed content, “And I’m happy.”_ _

__Arthur looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. “I don’t know why you think that’s a boring story, Alfred. That’s really an impressive story, and what you did was actually quite…” He hesitated, then used the word that he knew would strike the right chord with Alfred. “Heroic.”_ _

__Alfred looked at him in surprise, then quickly turned his attention back to the road, but his cheeks and the tips of his ears were darkening, and Arthur could see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “Thanks, Artie.”_ _

__

__They’d definitely picked the right day to come to Dover, Alfred mused, strolling beside Arthur on the cliff top path: it was the middle of the week, so they avoided all the weekenders, and the weather had been unexpectedly warm and sunny. There weren’t too many people on the path, which made the walk enjoyable, and Alfred’s most immediate task was keeping an eye on Arthur so he didn’t wander too close to the edge._ _

__Arthur had been preoccupied since they began the hike, and Alfred had respected the silence, knowing he was probably busy taking in the sights and sounds of their surroundings for use in his novel. Every now and then he’d stop and stare out over the Channel, watching the ferries or turning his gaze to the sky when his attention was taken by the call of a passing sea bird. It was so clear they’d even seen the coast of France in the distance. Alfred had brought his good digital camera along to help play the part of tourist, and he amused himself by taking photos. He’d even managed to sneak in a few of Arthur, hat off, hair ruffled by the breeze as he stared off into the distance with the blue sky as a background._ _

__When he wasn’t taking photos, or grabbing Arthur’s elbow to tug him back from the untrustworthy edge of the cliff, Alfred kept his hands firmly in his pockets. As they were walking the footpath, their hands occasionally brushed together, and it seemed like the most natural thing in the world for him to wrap his fingers around Arthur’s hand and link their fingers together… Luckily he’d come to his senses just in time and now he made sure to keep his hands occupied otherwise or deep in his pockets. He sighed. It was great to spend time with Arthur like this, like two friends enjoying a beautiful day…or enjoying a date; but it was also very hard to know it was all going to end when the contract ended. And, really, it should never have begun at all._ _

__As they reached the end of the path, Arthur stood for a few moments longer, seemingly lost in thought. Then he gave his head a little nod, as if he’d been having a conversation with himself, and turned to Alfred. “I’d like to take the lower path as well, but before we do that, I’d like to visit the castle.” He offered an apologetic smile. “I realize that’s something that would probably be quite boring for you, so if you’d like to visit the town or –”_ _

__“Are you kidding?” Alfred interrupted, giving him an enthusiastic thumbs up. “I want to see those tunnels. They’re supposed to have an awesome exhibit on the evacuation of Dunkirk, too.”_ _

__Arthur looked surprised, then laughed softly. “I’d forgotten you had done all that research for me. Of course, you would have read about the tunnels.” With silent agreement they both turned toward the castle and began walking. “I didn’t know you were interested in World War Two.”_ _

__“My grandpa was a pilot in the War,” Alfred explained, a smile touching his face as he remembered the hours he spent at his grandpa’s feet, listening to his stories as a pilot. “He flew a B-17.”_ _

__“Flying Fortress,” Arthur said immediately. “Very impressive. They were real workhorses. So he was a bomber pilot.”_ _

__“Yep. I used to sit there for hours and listen to his stories. He was pretty amazing. When he was ninety-two I found out about this place that flew restored World War II planes. I got in touch with them and arranged for him to go up in one of their B-17’s.” Alfred felt the sting of tears in his eyes as he remembered that day. “We had to practically carry him on board because his arthritis was so bad, but they gave him a nice, long flight, and afterwards he said that was one of the best moments of his life.” He slid a finger behind his glasses and dashed away a tear at the corner of one eye. “He passed away two weeks later, and I was so glad I was able to do that for him.”_ _

__“Oh, Alfred.” He felt a warm hand grasp his wrist and give it a gentle squeeze. “That was a lovely thing to do. That’s something you can always carry with you.”_ _

__Alfred nodded and cleared his throat. “Yeah. So, how about your family? You never really talk about them. Did you have a grandpa in the war? Or –” he winked, “a grandma?”_ _

__Arthur was silent for so long that Alfred nearly apologized for prying, but before he could open his mouth, the other man gave a little huff of laughter. “My mother’s father was a career Army man. He was a sergeant-major in the Corps of Royal Engineers, and he saw action in Europe. He died when I was quite young, and I barely remember him, so I never heard any of his stories, if he even told any; mostly I remember being frightened out of my wits around him because he had gone deaf and refused to wear a hearing aid, so he shouted everything.” He gave a stone in the path a little kick, sending it skittering. “My grandfather on my father’s side had polio when he was a child, and it left his legs very weak, so he wasn’t able to serve in the forces. He did his bit in the Home Guard as well as he could, but I think it left him bitter being left behind when all his peers went off to fight.” He shrugged. “He and my grandmother moved to Cornwall while I was still in grade school, and I never saw them much.”_ _

__Arthur hadn’t sounded sad when he spoke of his family, just sort of neutral as if he was speaking of strangers. To bring him out of whatever memories that had put that set, tense look on his face, Alfred asked, “So, you’re just kind of a history buff?”_ _

__“Hmm?” Arthur blinked at him as if coming out of a fog. “Oh, yes, I suppose so. I’ve always loved history. I’m not sure what it is about World War Two in particular that appeals to me,” he mused. “I think it’s the whole era, really. Things just seemed…simpler then for the most part. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t like to go back to writing novels on typewriters, especially as many typos as I make and as many rewrites as I do, but people _did_ do without computers and email and mobiles before, and things got done. Look at the war correspondents back then: they managed to file their stories without satellite phones or iPads whatever it is they’re using these days. Everything’s so _immediate_ now.” He let out a sigh. “I just don’t think it’s a bad thing to slow down a bit and…disconnect now and then.” He wrinkled his nose. “How very zen of me,” he murmured dryly._ _

__Alfred wondered if Arthur had felt like that when he was living in New York, one of the fastest-paced cities in the world, and felt trapped there, like a bird caught in a cage. Or whether he started feeling that way in the serenity of a country house over here where he had isolated himself and could hear himself think. “I hear you,” Alfred said easily, nodding his head. “I wouldn’t want to give up my iPhone or iPad – and technology is pretty much my specialty - but I think there’s a way to have both really.” Arthur looked at him. “I mean, you don’t have to be tied to technology or let it run your life. I’ll fully admit my addiction to Angry Birds,” he grinned, “and at home I’ve got a gaming set-up that would probably make you run screaming into the night, but sometimes I just like to turn it all off. At least, for a little while. And you seem like you’ve managed to strike a good, solid balance.”_ _

__“Only since I’ve been here,” Arthur confessed. “It was rather different in New York. But this…” He looked around, nodding, “This is more what I had in mind.”_ _

__“You know, you should totally write a book set in the Forties,” Alfred said seriously, “because I’ll bet you could slip into that mindset no problem at all. And you’d probably really enjoy it.”_ _

__Arthur at first looked startled, then a small smile tugged at his lips. “Yes,” he said softly. “Perhaps I shall.”_ _

__Then they reached the castle and their conversation turned to the tour they were about to take._ _

__

__The tour of the castle was more or less what Alfred expected, and he enjoyed it about as much as he expected. But the tunnels, they were _awesome_. When they finally walked back out into the fading sunlight, Alfred felt a little like he’d been transported back in time for the last couple of hours. Arthur looked like he felt similarly affected, and once they reached the lower coastal path, he asked if he could walk a bit by himself. Sensing Arthur’s need for some time to himself, Alfred agreed immediately took a seat on one of the wooden benches along the path._ _

__As he waited, he casually browsed through the photos he’d taken today. As he flicked through the images on his screen, he stopped suddenly and gazed at the image frozen on his camera. He considered himself a pretty good photographer, but this one had nothing to do with skill. He’d managed to capture Arthur at just the right time when they were atop the cliffs. The writer was gazing pensively out across the Channel with a bright blue sky as his backdrop; he’d taken his cap off somewhere along the way, the wind ruffling his already wild locks, and the stiff sea breeze had brought color to his normally pale face. He looked happy and relaxed, and the sun glinted off the metal of his glasses, calling attention to his sharp cheekbones. Alfred wondered how often he could get away with insisting Arthur wear those glasses… He let out a sharp huff. The guy was fucking _gorgeous_._ _

__“Did you get some nice shots?”_ _

__The sound of Arthur’s voice, _right in front of him_ , made him jump, and he quickly flicked the button on his camera, darkening the screen. “Yep,” he said cheerfully, smiling up at Arthur, who was now backlit prettily by the sun hanging low in the sky. “I’ll upload them to your laptop when we get back, if you like, so you can use them for reference.”_ _

__Arthur brightened, “Oh, that would be brilliant.”_ _

__All except that one picture, Alfred thought. “Did you get what you needed today?” he asked, standing._ _

__“I did.” He gave Alfred a serious look. “Thank you for bringing me, Alfred. This was exactly what I needed.” He looked away, his gaze playing over the Channel waters. “I’ve always set my novels in places I’m familiar with. I don’t know what possessed me to drag the White Cliffs into this book, but once I had I knew it was the right setting.” He looked back at Alfred, his expression a little sheepish. “But then I realized I needed to come here and see it firsthand.”_ _

__“Hey, I had a great day, and you got what you needed for your book. I’d say that counts as win-win for both of us.”_ _

__

__The ride back to the house was quiet for the most part. As soon as he’d fastened his seatbelt, Arthur brought a notebook out from under his seat, pulled a pen from his pocket and began writing. The only sounds Alfred heard were the purring of the motor and scratching of Arthur’s pen until they were nearly home. Then Arthur closed his notebook with a satisfied sigh, and apologized, “I’m sorry for seeming so anti-social, Alfred, but I had some thoughts and impressions I wanted to get down on paper.”_ _

__“Hey, no worries. So, were the tunnels what were you expecting?” Alfred asked, and the two chatted about their reactions to the various exhibitions the rest of the way home._ _

__

__Dinner that evening was light and fast, per Arthur’s request. It was obvious he was itching to get to his study and write, so Alfred produced soup and sandwiches, which Arthur ate as fast as decently polite. When he placed his napkin on the table, he looked across the table at Alfred and said, “I’ll probably be working quite late tonight, so please don’t wait up. If I feel the need for a cup of tea, I’m certainly capable of seeing to myself. And, please, no interruptions unless there’s something that just can’t wait.” With that, he walked into his study and firmly closed the door behind him._ _

__With an unexpected night off, Alfred quickly tidied the kitchen and sent a text to Matthew, asking him to get on Skype. Might as well catch up on the agency and get some of his own work done._ _

__

__The next few weeks followed a strange pattern that made no sense whatsoever to Alfred, but did give him a chance to shine as the Perfect Personal Assistant and to fulfill Rule Number One._ _

__It started like this: Arthur continued to work well into the wee hours. Alfred would come down to start breakfast and find a neatly written request on his desk. The first time it happened – _I need to visit Canterbury_ – Alfred had arranged it without fuss, although he did wonder why Arthur hadn’t simply asked to make the detour when they went to Dover. Regardless, he was happy to make another field trip and get Arthur out of the house, so he made certain Arthur was suitably disguised (complete with glasses! Score!) and they had a pleasant day out in the ancient town._ _

__When they returned in the evening, Arthur once again had that manic gleam in his eye and shut himself in his study for more late evenings. Alfred did manage to tempt him out now and then for their movie nights, and he bullied him into having an early night once or twice because the bags under his eyes were starting to worry him, but Arthur seemed completely focused on his novel in a way he hadn’t been before. Francis Bonnefoy usually called every week or two to check in with Alfred, and the last time Alfred was concerned enough to tell him about Arthur’s recent working habits. To his surprise, Bonnefoy had chuckled, “That is music to my ears, Mr. Jones; it means the novel is going well. Put your worries to rest. Make sure he eats and sleeps, but otherwise, do not worry.”_ _

__The requests kept coming: Stonehenge; a tour of the HMS Victory in Portsmouth; a hike of Cheddar Gorge with a side trip to Glasonbury._ _

__It was at this point that Alfred told Matthew over Skype one night, “I’m telling you, Mattie, it all makes sense now.”_ _

__“What does?” Matthew asked warily._ _

__“Arthur’s book! It’s about time travel!”_ _

__There was a long silence from Matthew as he gave Alfred a skeptical look. “Al, I’ve read all his books, and trust me, Arthur Kirkland doesn’t seem like a time travel type of writer.”_ _

__“Maybe not, but it makes total sense. The hero is going to meet Druids, Lord Nelson, Chaucer – or maybe Thomas Becket – King Arthur, or maybe Merlin –”_ _

__“Al, I really don’t think –”_ _

__“Can you come up with any other explanation for going to these places while he’s doing research for his book?”_ _

__There was a gusty sigh and Matthew admitted, “No, I can’t. Time travel it is.”_ _

__Mindful always of the fact that Arthur was trying to remain invisible, Alfred kept an eye out while they were out and about, but they blended in with other tourists and no one seemed to give them a second look. But he admitted the most recent request concerned him a bit, and he ignored Arthur’s orders and knocked on his study door before entering, knowing Arthur wouldn’t bother answering, if he even paid attention to the knock._ _

__“Artie, I need a minute.”_ _

__Arthur didn’t bother to look up from his laptop. “Can’t it wait?”_ _

__“No, it really can’t. Plus, I’ve got tea, so maybe you could take a break, okay?”_ _

__The writer sighed, but nodded. “All right. Just a moment.”_ _

__Alfred watched as he carefully saved his documents, then saved it to the back-up drive Alfred had hooked up for him, and then emailed it to himself. His fingers itched to do it himself ( _so much faster!_ ), but he turned away and set the tea tray down and waited until Arthur saw the email pop up in his email program. Only then did he turn around and face Alfred and accept the cup of tea. “Thank you. Now, what did you need?” Alfred held up the neatly written note in his hand so Arthur could see it, and Arthur caught his lower lip in his teeth. “Is there a problem?” he asked hesitantly._ _

__Taken off-guard by his reaction, Alfred hastened to reassure him. “No, not at all. I just wanted to clarify it before I made the arrangements. “Offa’s Dyke covers a lot of territory. I just wondered if you wanted to hike the whole thing, or just part of it, and hit some attractions along the way, and if so, what you were interested in.”_ _

__“Ah.” Arthur brightened and settled himself more comfortably in his seat. “I see. Well, I’d like to hike through some of the more scenic parts, and I confess, I’d very much like to spend at least a day in Hay-on-Wye.”_ _

__“How did I know you were going to say that?” Alfred said dryly._ _

__“And perhaps we could manage to see Tintern Abbey and perhaps a quick visit to Chirk Castle?”_ _

__He looked so cautiously hopeful that it took Alfred back for a moment; as if he wouldn’t do anything Arthur wanted, provided it was in his power and didn’t provide a security risk. He flashed a reassuring smile, jotting down a few notes, “So we’re talking about an over-nighter then?”_ _

__“Perhaps one or two nights,” Arthur suggested, still hesitant. “If that’s not a problem.”_ _

__“Nope. Give me a day or two to map out some routes and contact some B and B’s, and make sure we have what we need.” He looked up from the notes on his paper, “Are you sure one day at Hay-on-Wye will be enough?” he teased._ _

__Arthur sniffed and raised one formidable eyebrow. “Just be sure there is plenty of room in the boot, and we should be fine.”_ _

__Alfred nodded and turned to leave, murmuring, “We could always tie the books to the roof of the car,” just so he could hear Arthur’s cries of outrage._ _

__

__In the end they spent three days on the road. They’d probably still be in Hay-on-Wye if Alfred hadn’t dragged Arthur away, but it had been an exceptionally good road trip. He pretty much played shopping cart for Arthur as the man wandered through the seemingly never ending array of book shops, but he didn’t mind. He discovered that he could be happy doing just about anything if it meant spending time with Arthur. The Brit was relaxed and happy and had color in his cheeks from all the time they spent in the open air, taking in the breathtaking views of Wales. He’d been as unplugged and out of touch as he’d ever been on this assignment, as cell phone reception had been spotty when they were hiking, but he’d checked in with Mattie last night and all was well._ _

__They were about twenty minutes from home now, with Arthur dozing peacefully in the passenger seat, when Alfred’s Bluetooth chirped in his ear. He answered automatically, and straightened when Matthew answered, sounding tense. “Mattie, what’s up?” he asked warily._ _

__“How close are you to getting back to the house?” Matthew asked curtly._ _

__“Twenty minutes, give or take. Why?”_ _

__“Can you avoid the village?”_ _

__“Yeah, sure, I can take some back roads. Mattie, _what’s up_?”_ _

__“We’re at Defcon One.”_ _

__“What?” Alfred nearly swerved the car off the road, and cursed as he swung back, giving a quick glance at Arthur, who thankfully, remained asleep. “What the hell are you talking about?” he hissed. “There’s no way –”_ _

__“Oh, there’s a way, all right.” Matthew sighed and he sounded both weary and stressed. “Get back to the house and don’t make any stops. I’ve emailed you some links, although I doubt you’ll need them. Ludwig is on his way. Call me when you get there.” And then he disconnected._ _

__Mattie didn’t have it in his genes to be rude, so Alfred could only imagine he was too stressed and distracted to think about politeness. Fighting down the urge to pull over to the side of the road and get on his iPhone to pull up his email, Alfred concentrated on getting back to the house as soon as he could, taking the long way around and avoiding the village._ _

__

__Alfred set some kind of speed record for unpacking the car and preparing a cup of tea for Arthur, who was settled down happily in the study with his hoard of books. With Arthur likely not to move in the foreseeable future, Alfred grabbed his laptop and ran up the stairs and into his room, shutting the door behind him. It took him only moments to boot up and bring up his email account. There were some twenty-five messages in his account, most from Mattie, and all of those with a big, red Priority flag screaming at him._ _

__He took a deep breath, opened the oldest and clicked on the link._ _

__In a daze, he continued opening emails and clicking links. Then he did his own Google search. “Jesus fucking _Christ_.” Pulling out his iPhone, he hit the first speed dial button, and Matthew answered immediately._ _

__“Did you see it?”_ _

__“Can’t fuckin’ _miss_ it,” Alfred answered bitterly. “This is bad, Mattie. This is really, really bad.”_ _

__“Well, unless you kept Arthur locked up in the house, it was always going to be a possibility.”_ _

__“Yeah, but, seriously, he _wasn’t_ recognized. But some bozo takes some shots while he’s on vacation, posts them on Facebook, and Arthur happens to be in the background?” Alfred wanted to tear his hair out. “What were the odds?”_ _

__“Yeah, but that’s not the worst part,” Matthew reminded him._ _

__“Yeah, I got that.” He was silent for a moment, staring at the damning images. “We’ve got to tell Bonnefoy.”_ _

__“Already done that. I didn’t want him to find out by reading about it in a tabloid.”_ _

__Alfred was afraid to ask. “How did he take it?”_ _

__“He’s not happy,” his cousin said plainly, “but we’re still employed. Obviously, his main concern is protecting Arthur. He doesn’t want a repeat of the media circus that happened in New York.” His voice firmed, “We need to fix this.”_ _

__“We will,” Alfred said immediately. “ _I_ will. But first I’ve got to tell Arthur what happened –” He broke off as he heard Arthur downstairs, his voice raised in anger. “What the hell? Oh, no… Mattie, I’ll call you back.” Disconnecting the call, he launched himself from the bed and took the stairs at a dead run. When he ran into the front door, which opened to a foyer, he found Arthur standing in front at the open door while two men and a woman were trying to crowd their way in, the woman shoving a microphone in the Brit’s face and the men raising cameras. Alfred felt his blood pressure threaten to shoot out of the top of his head. He strode up behind a floundering Arthur, took him by the shoulders and moved him firmly aside, then bulldozed himself outside, shutting the door behind him._ _

__He pulled out his phone and pushed a few buttons. “Lady and gentlemen of the Press,” he said, giving them his sharpest smile, “you are trespassing on private property. You have twenty seconds, beginning right now –” He held up his phone, making sure they saw the large digital numbers counting down – “to head back in the direction you came, or I’m pressing speed dial for the local constabulary to report a home invasion.” He turned his phone around, pressed the button to take a photo, then beamed, “And, oh look, I’ve even got a picture of the car and license plate for the police. How handy.” He glanced at the countdown. “Opps. Better hurry. My finger’s getting itchy.”_ _

__The woman, who seemed to be the one in charge, gave him a measuring look, decided from the set of his face and the ice in his eyes that he wasn’t joking, and did an abrupt about-face, the men quickly following her lead. Alfred watched as they quickly got into their minivan, turned around and headed back down the long driveway. Alfred waited long enough to make sure they were gone, then went back inside. Arthur was nowhere to be found._ _

__He finally found him in the kitchen, sitting at the table, his face tense, his hands clasped so that his knuckles showed white. Alfred slowly sat down opposite him and leaned over, laying a hand on one arm. “Artie? Are you okay?”_ _

__Arthur raised his head; his eyes green eyes had a hunted look to them. “How – how did they _find_ me?”_ _

__Alfred gave his arm a squeeze, then sat back and said quietly, “It was my fault.”_ _

__“I don’t understand.”_ _

__“It was when we were on the Victory,” Alfred explained, holding his gaze. “A tourist took some photos and put them up on his Facebook account. You were in the background. It didn’t take long for it to go viral once you were recognized.”_ _

__“Yes, but –”_ _

__“I was in the picture with you.”_ _

__Arthur blinked at him. “I still don’t understand.”_ _

__Alfred waved a hand. “Everyone in the village knows my face, and those pictures are all over the internet and in every tabloid on the stands. I’m guessing it didn’t take long for someone in the village to make a phone call.”_ _

__After a moment, Arthur nodded. “So now it begins,” he said dully. He looked so defeated Alfred had to hold himself back from going around the table and gathering him into a big hug. But he also looked so skittish that he’d jump if Alfred made a wrong move. Arthur dropped his head into his hands. “I can’t go through this again.”_ _

__“Arthur, it’s going to be okay –”_ _

__The Brit’s head shot up. “No, Alfred, it won’t,” he bit out. “You don’t understand. I have a book to finish.”_ _

__“I know this is upsetting,” Alfred began gently, “but it will be okay –”_ _

__“Stop saying that!” he snapped. “You have no idea what you’re talking about!”_ _

__Alfred froze at the harsh tone, even though he hadn’t stopped berating himself. “I know,” he said finally, his voice quiet. “I’m sorry. There’s no way I can understand, you’re right.”_ _

__Arthur stared at him, and gradually the anger left his eyes, but the despair it left behind was even worse as far as Alfred was concerned. “Alfred,” he said finally, his voice quiet, “when you took this job, did Francis tell you why I needed this solitude?”_ _

__“Well, it was all the media crap, of course, and he said you needed peace to write your book.”_ _

__Arthur nodded. “But he didn’t tell you the reason _this_ book is so important?” Alfred shook his head. Arthur lowered his gaze, staring at his hands. “My last book was rubbish,” he said flatly. “It was unpublishable, and I defaulted on my contract with my publisher. Francis managed to get me a year’s extension due to the…circumstances you already know about.” He looked up, his face grim. “So it is absolutely imperative that I meet my deadline this time. Don’t you see? I can’t default again, and this book…” He ran a hand through his hair, making it even more disorderly. “This book is different from all my other books. I – I don’t know how it’s going to be received.” He gave a huff of laughter with no hint of humor. “I don’t even know if it’s any bloody good. I just know I have to finish it on time, and I can’t do that if I’m worrying about the Press outside my door.”_ _

__Alfred licked his lips, then leaned forward again, resting his arms on the table. “This is my fault, and I’m going to fix it.”_ _

__“Alfred, this isn’t your fault.”_ _

__Alfred gave his head a sharp shake. “Don’t even bother, Artie. This happened on my watch, but I have an idea how we can maybe, not make it go completely away, but at least deflect it.”_ _

__“How?” Arthur asked immediately, hope brightening his eyes._ _

__Before Alfred could explain, a businesslike knock sounded at the door at the same time his phone buzzed with a text message. Arthur flinched, but Alfred immediately laid a calming hand on his arm as he pulled out his phone and smiled reassurance. “Reinforcements,” he explained. “I’ll be right back.”_ _

__Big, solid Ludwig Beilschmidt stood in the doorway as Alfred opened the door. The guy may have no discernable sense of humor, but there was no one Alfred would rather have at his back in a security crisis. “The gate is secure,” Ludwig said without preamble. “No cars will be getting in.”_ _

__Alfred nodded. “They can still get in via the trails in the woods on foot.”_ _

__“That will be hard to control,” Ludwig told him, “but I have people stationed around the property.” He hesitated, then added, “And I brought Gilbert along to handle the perimeter.”_ _

__Alfred bit back a grin. Gilbert was Ludwig’s older brother, and came from a background that involved super secret spy work. He enjoyed scaring people half to death, so he was probably having a ball beating the woods to try to flush out anyone with a long lens camera. He wished Gilbert all the luck in the world._ _

__“Sounds like that’s covered then. Come on in, I want you to meet our client.”_ _

__Ludwig automatically straightened his tie and gave his jacket a tug, but there was really no hiding the bulge of his underarm holster. Ludwig liked his guns big. Being American, Alfred found that very reassuring._ _

__

__With Arthur left safely in Ludwig’s presence and a pot of tea and sandwiches at their disposal, Alfred retreated to his room. After a short strategy call with Mattie, his cousin set up a Skype conference with them and Francis Bonnefoy. Alfred spoke with Bonnefoy on nearly a weekly basis, but he’d never spoken to him face-to-face as it were, and he was very aware that the man wasn’t happy with him at the moment._ _

__So he changed his clothes into something neat and business-like, set his laptop up on his desk, and opened Skype._ _

__He relaxed a little when he saw Matthew in one video box, looking calm and professional. Then his eyes slid over to the image of Francis Bonnefoy. He looked very…French, was Alfred’s first impression. Long, wavy blond hair framing an almost pretty face, very expensive clothes, and a cool, appraising gaze from blue eyes. He felt a stab of jealousy when he thought of how close Arthur was to this guy and wondered if it was just business. Then he pushed those thoughts aside and straightened. Bonnefoy also looked pretty grim, which was what he should be concerned with right now._ _

__“Mr. Bonnefoy. Matthew,” Alfred said in his most business-like tone._ _

__Bonnefoy leveled a flat look at him through the screen and said in a clipped, French voice, “So, Mr. Jones, Mattieu tells me you have a plan to mitigate the damage of this security breach.”_ _

__So, Matthew was ‘Mattieu’, and what kind of weird-ass French way was that for saying his cousin’s name? And he was ‘Mr. Jones.’ Well, it was always good to know where you stood._ _

__“Yes, sir,” he said briskly. “I think we should meet this head-on, and have Arthur give an exclusive interview to one journalist about the whole situation.” When Bonnefoy’s face tightened and he opened his mouth, Alfred hurried on, “Please, hear me out, sir. Right now, every journalist out there is trying to get that story and pictures of Arthur Kirkland. If we give all that to one person, answer the questions everyone is asking, then there’s no more race to get the scoop. And best of all, just like a game of tennis, it puts the ball in someone else’s court, and they have to make the return.”_ _

__One elegant eyebrow raised and Bonnefoy said slowly, “Carriedo. The tide will turn, and the Press will be looking to him for a response.”_ _

__“And I doubt it’s a response he really wants to give. It’s been all fun in the sun so far for him, but this will change the game.” Alfred paused, then gave a shark’s smile. “Don’t you think it’s about time _he_ learned what it’s like to be prey?”_ _

__There was silence for a long time. Alfred kept his expression smooth, but he could see Matthew was getting ready to crack. Just before he did, however, a slow, satisfied smile formed on Bonnefoy’s face. “Well,” he said finally, “I cannot say I disagree.” He tilted his head. “Did you have someone in mind to do the interview?”_ _

__Matthew spoke for the first time. “There’s someone we both know and trust, and we’ve worked with her before. She’s an independent journalist, but has done work for BBC-One. She won awards for an expose she did on water pollution in Leeds and local government pay-offs to keep it unreported. But she’s also done some one-on-one interviews in very delicate situations, and she’s always shown herself to be honest and fair in her dealings.”_ _

__“And you would trust her with this?”_ _

__“We would,” Alfred and Matthew answered together._ _

__“And when would you want to do this interview?”_ _

__“Immediately,” Alfred answered instantly. “We don’t have any time to lose.”_ _

__“I agree,” Matthew added. “I can place the phone call and we could have it done by this evening and clips on You Tube tomorrow morning. If you and Mr. Kirkland agree,” he added._ _

__Bonnefoy looked off to the side, and Alfred saw him bring a wineglass to his mouth and take a drink. When he looked back, he was looking straight at Alfred. “For whatever reason, Mr. Jones, Arthur has made it clear to me that he trusts you. So I shall trust you. When you present this to him, you may tell him I agree with this approach.”_ _

__Alfred had a pretty good poker face, but he wasn’t sure he managed to keep from showing how relieved he was. “All right. I’ll talk to him, and if he agrees, we’ll set it up. Matt, I’ll call you as soon as I have an answer.”_ _

__Now, all he had to do was ask a man who valued his privacy more than anyone he’d ever met, to bare his soul to a stranger in front of cameras for the whole world to watch._ _

__

__It went about as well as he thought it would._ _

__“You want me to what?” Arthur had jumped to his feet, eyes blazing with something that looked uncomfortably like betrayal._ _

__“I know it’s asking a lot,” Alfred said, keeping his voice even and gentle as he also got to his feet. “But we all think if you do this, it will take the heat off you and it’ll keep the stampede away.”_ _

__“Francis agreed?”_ _

__“He did.” He didn’t want Arthur to feel like they’d all ganged up on him and were trying to bully him into this, and added, “But we all agree, the decision is yours, Artie. If you really don’t want to do it, we’ll try to come up with something else.”_ _

__Arthur looked down at his feet, his eyebrows scrunched in a frown. Finally he looked up at him from under his lashes. Alfred really wished he wouldn’t do that when he was trying to all business-like and professional. “And you think it will work?”_ _

__“I think it will do what we need it to do, and I think it will be a whole lot worse if we don’t do something.”_ _

__Arthur turned away, arms wrapped around himself and paced once around the room before returning to stop in front of Alfred. He looked miserable. “Alfred, I understand the reasoning behind this, and I have to say, I don’t disagree. But…but I don’t think I can do it. I don’t think I can sit down and open myself up to a stranger like that. I’ve given countless interviews, but never about something like this.” He closed his eyes in defeat, rubbing his temple as if he had a headache. “I’m sorry,” he whispered._ _

__“Artie,” Alfred said softly, “do you think you could tell me?”_ _

__Arthur’s eyes shot open. “What?”_ _

__“Could you tell me?” he repeated, holding his gaze._ _

__“Yes.” After he said it, Arthur looked surprised, but then he nodded his head and said slowly, “Yes, I could tell you, if you wished.”_ _

__A slow smile pulled at Alfred’s lips. “Okay then. I’ll be sitting right behind the interviewer, and when she asks you a question, you look at me and tell me, okay? Just me. Forget about everyone else, just talk to me.”_ _

__Arthur eyed him thoughtfully for a moment, then snorted softly. “The old public speaking trick.”_ _

__“Yep, and it works.”_ _

__“I didn’t take you for the sort who needed help with public speaking,” the other man said dryly._ _

__“Oh, I’m not,” Alfred said cheerfully. “But Mattie’s kind of shy, and he had to do a presentation some time back, and we used that to get him through it.” He reached out and touched Arthur’s arm lightly. “So you’ll do it?”_ _

__Arthur let out a sigh. “Yes, I’ll do it. Frankly, I don’t see any other choice. And you’ll be here…?”_ _

__“Won’t be able to budge me,” Alfred assured him. “I’ll call Mattie and get the ball rolling.”_ _

__“How soon do you think we’ll have to do it?”_ _

__“Probably just as soon as Liz – that’s the journalist we’re calling - can get here from London, and my guess is she’ll be breaking all the speed limits to get here. So we’ve got a couple of hours to get ready.” He eyed Arthur’s clothes. “And to decide what you’re going to wear. You, me and Mr. Bonnefoy have an appointment with your wardrobe. He has some very definite ideas of how he wants you to look.”_ _

__Arthur must have been used to that, because he rolled his eyes and muttered, “Damn frog.”_ _

__

__They set up in the drawing room. It was perfect, Alfred thought: it was beautifully furnished, had a gorgeous old fireplace, and the bookcases made the room look like just the place you’d expect to find a writer like Arthur Kirkland. Alfred stood across the room and watched as Elizabeta Héderváry and Arthur spoke quietly together. Liz was very good at putting people to ease, and she had her work cut out with Arthur. It was only because Alfred had become something of an expert in reading Arthur’s body language that he knew he’d relaxed a bit, but he was still nervous._ _

__While Arthur’s attention was fixed on Liz, Alfred took the chance to look his fill. He had to admit, Bonnefoy had good taste, and good instincts when it came to how Arthur should be presented. A green cashmere sweater, just a little over-sized (the sleeves kept sliding down over Artie’s knuckles, and he kept pushing them up, only to have them slide down again), a pair of skinny jeans Alfred hadn’t seen before, and the boots he recognized from when Arthur first came to England. A tiny diamond stud earring in one ear caught the light when Arthur turned his head just so, and it took both Alfred and Bonnefoy to convince him not to try to tame his hair. Although if Arthur had known they were going for ‘adorably rumpled’, he would have probably locked himself in the bathroom with a tube of hair gel. He looked a little tired, Alfred mused, but that would probably work in their favor: it made him look kind of fragile, although Alfred knew he wasn’t anything of the sort. Still, it was a good look for him, and would play off well against Liz’s style of interviewing and when she asked the hard questions._ _

__Alfred sighed, feeling a twinge of guilt at having to put Arthur through this, but if it worked out the way he hoped, then it would be worth it._ _

__He hoped._ _

__

__Every now and then Alfred realized he was holding his breath and had to take a quick breath of air and force himself to breathe evenly. The interview had been going well; Liz had started out with some chatter and easy questions, then had leaned forward and said, “Now, Mr. Kirkland, I must ask the question everyone will insist I ask.”_ _

__Arthur’s jaw had tightened, but he gave a sharp nod. “Of course. You want to know about the day Antonio and I were to be wed.”_ _

__Elizabeta was almost quivering with excitement, but she kept her tone gentle, “If you would.”_ _

__Arthur’s gaze flicked to him, and Alfred gave him a little nod of encouragement, and surreptitiously jabbed his thumb to own chest: _Just tell me_._ _

__He saw Arthur take a deep breath, wet his lips with his tongue, then nod. “Very well.”_ _

__Arthur kept his gaze on Alfred as he spoke in a quiet, soft voice and told the world about what happened that day. His voice never changed tone, but there was a look of raw hurt in his eyes as he recounted the events of that day, from his nervousness and excitement arriving at the church, to the moment Francis had broken the news to him that Antonio had abandoned him for someone else._ _

__“That must have been a terrible shock for you,” Liz said with sympathy._ _

__“Shock.” Arthur tilted his head, his gaze sliding away from Alfred’s, and his green eyes shining with a sheen of unshed tears. “Yes, you could say.”_ _

__Alfred, tensed, ready to stop the cameras if needed. He’d had two conditions for the interview, both non-negotiable. The first was that he stay in the room, and the second was that he could call a halt if Arthur became upset and give him a chance to compose himself. Liz had balked at the second demand, because viewers _wanted_ drama and raw emotion, but she also knew that Alfred could place one phone call and get another journalist here within two hours. So she agreed to both conditions. Now Alfred was watching Arthur closely and wondering if he needed to stop the camera._ _

__Arthur blinked a few times and seemed to get himself back under control, but the look in his eyes made Alfred’s heart clench. “It was a full two days,” Arthur said softly, his gaze obviously turned inward at the incident that had left his heart, and probably his ability to trust, in tatters, “until I realized that, if Antonio had run off with someone else, then he must have been cheating on me for some time. Two days to realize what everyone else in the whole bloody world realized immediately.” His voice caught suddenly in his throat. “I had been such a fool.”_ _

__Alfred had been unconsciously aware of the cameraman zooming in to tighten the shot on Arthur’s face, and the business manager/public relations side of him thought, _That’s the money shot_ , even as he hated himself for thinking it. But it was true. He’d bet the net worth of their agency that this was the clip that would find its way onto the internet. Liz was vibrating like an overstrung violin string; she knew what she had. She let the silence hang for a few moments longer, then, to Alfred’s surprise, she held up a hand, and the camera stopped. She smiled at Arthur. “Why don’t we take a break?” she asked. “I know I could use a cup of tea.”_ _

__Arthur looked startled, then grateful. “Yes, thank you.” He stood when Elizabeta did, but after she and the support staff had left the room, he dropped back into his chair._ _

__Alfred was by his side in an instant, pulling his chair around so he was facing Arthur, who had now dropped his head into his hands. “Artie?” Hesitantly, Alfred touched his arm. “Hey, are you okay?”_ _

__Arthur nodded without looking up. “Yes, but, _bloody hell_ , that was…”_ _

__“Intense,” Alfred filled in. “I know, but you did great.”_ _

__At that Arthur looked up, surprised. “I did?”_ _

__“You sure did,” Alfred said firmly. “You were awesome.”_ _

__“But she…” Arthur glanced at the doorway and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Is it normal to stop an interview like this?”_ _

__“Absolutely,” he lied instantly. “It gives everyone a chance to regroup.”_ _

__“Oh, well then,” Arthur said, sounding relieved. “I thought I’d done something wrong.”_ _

__Thinking back to the last few minutes of the interview, Alfred said with feeling, “You were perfect.” Arthur’s face flushed, but he looked endearingly pleased. “You just relax and I’ll get you your tea, okay?” When Arthur nodded, Alfred swiftly left the room, wanting a chance to speak with Liz before he brought the tea in._ _

__In the kitchen, Matthew the chef, had the tea well in hand, moving around in the kitchen as if he’d lived there all his life, Elizabeta was sitting at the table sipping a cup of tea, and the cameraman was busy at his laptop with his camera hooked up. Alfred knew immediately what he was doing, and he shot Liz a sharp look._ _

__She shrugged with a smile. “That was pure gold,” she said simply._ _

__He nodded. “I know. Why’d you stop the interview?”_ _

__She lifted her elegant eyebrows. “I’m not completely heartless, Alfred. He obviously needed a few minutes to recover.” She grinned. “Besides, I don’t need hate mail from viewers accusing me of bullying Arthur Kirkland.” He nodded, accepting that; she wanted to be seen as a confidant in this interview, not Mike Wallace grilling a third world dictator._ _

__Alfred accepted a tea tray from Mattie, who asked quietly, “How’s he doing?”_ _

__“I think he’s okay, for someone who just told the world about the most hurtful and humiliating moment of his life.”_ _

__Matthew said sympathetically, “Well, I think the worst is over.” He nodded toward the tray, “And I brought some scones for him. You said he liked them.”_ _

__Alfred grinned, “He _loves_ them. Thanks.” As he turned to back into the drawing room, he said to Liz, “Can you give us about fifteen minutes?”_ _

__“No problem.” She nodded toward the cameraman, hard at work. “My guess is, this three minute clip will go viral before I’m back in London.” Alfred didn’t doubt that for a moment. “You do know, after the whole interview airs tomorrow night, it’s really going to hit the fan.”_ _

__“I’m counting on it.”_ _

__She looked at him thoughtfully. “Anytime you want to go into PR, Alfred, let me know. I have some contacts.”_ _

__He laughed. “Thanks, but I’m happy where I am, Liz.”_ _

__She cocked her head, a wicked gleam coming into her eyes. “He’s a cutie, isn’t he?”_ _

__Alfred’s smile fell from his face. “He’s our _client_ , Liz,” he said sternly, although he could feel his ears burning. From the corner of his eye he saw Matthew leaning against the counter, arms folded, watching him, and he decided to make his exit while he still had some pride left._ _

__

__When they resumed the interview, Liz picked up where they left off, asking about Arthur’s decision to come to England and segueing into a discussion about his new book. Alfred saw him relax immediately; this was old hat to him, he knew just how much to say and how much to withhold, how to tease and how to deflect. Although he seemed oddly hesitant when he made it clear that this wasn’t another book in his series with Bancroft and Fletcher. It was obvious he was uncertain how his readers would accept this sidestep from the norm. But Liz was enthusiastic about the news – after all, it was a scoop within a scoop – and asked just enough questions to get the kind of information that would set Arthur’s legion of fans buzzing on the net. Alfred made a mental note to send her flowers when this was all over. Yes, they had handed her a golden ticket to journalistic stardom, but there weren’t that many interviewers he would have trusted Arthur with._ _

__As he was musing over that, Elizabeta asked, “According to your biography, you haven’t been back to England since you graduated from university and moved to New York. Will you be seeing your family now that you’ve returned?”_ _

__Arthur started, his hands curling into fists where they rested on his thighs, and his eyes went a little wild as his gaze flew to Alfred. “I don’t – I’m not – This isn’t –”_ _

__“Stop the camera,” Alfred ordered sharply._ _

__Liz nodded at the cameraman, and he lowered the camera._ _

__“I’m sorry,” Arthur said, “but I don’t see why --” He closed his eyes momentarily, then said firmly, “My family is no part of this. They lead private lives, and this would only draw attention to them.”_ _

__Liz made a pretense of considering it, but she knew she didn’t need it. There may well be a story about Arthur Kirkland and his family, but that wasn’t what this was about, and it certainly wasn’t as big as the story she had._ _

__“Liz,” Alfred warned._ _

__She nodded. “We’ll cut that part,” she promised. “No mention of family.”_ _

__Arthur relaxed. “Thank you.”_ _

__Elizabeta was a professional, and when the camera was raised again, she smoothly transitioned by asking him about the excursions he’d made in England, referring to the one where he’d been captured in someone’s holiday snap. This was easy stuff, so Alfred relaxed, but he found Arthur’s gaze on him. So he smiled encouragingly, and to his surprise, Arthur’s expression softened as he began talking about the various day trips they’d made and the things they’d done. He obviously enjoyed recounting their adventures and it was a good way to wind down the interview._ _

__When they finally wrapped, Elizabeta and Arthur got to their feet, and she held out her hand. As Arthur shook it, she said, “Thank you, Mr. Kirkland. I know this wasn’t an easy interview for you, and I appreciate the fact that you allowed me this opportunity.” She placed her other hand on top of his and Alfred saw her give it a little squeeze. “I hope this takes the pressure off and you can finish your book in peace.”_ _

__This brought a genuine, if somewhat shy, smile from Arthur. “Thank you. It wasn’t easy, but you were most kind.”_ _

__After Liz and the cameraman left the room, Arthur spoke up before Alfred could. “I need to call Francis; he wanted to know how it went. I’m sure you’d like some time with Matthew, so I’ll be upstairs.” But he hesitated as he turned to leave and looked at Alfred. “Thank you for convincing me to do this, Alfred. It wasn’t pleasant, but I have to say it was actually something of a relief.” He smiled wryly. “Although, I’m bloody glad it’s over.” And with that, he left the room, and Alfred watched him go, hoping like anything that the results were what they all hoped they would be._ _

__

__There wasn’t much business to wrap up with Liz, and she was eager to get back to London; there was still a lot of work to do before the full interview aired on TV the next night. So after she and her crew left, Alfred sat down at the kitchen table as Matthew served them some of his outstanding coffee._ _

__“That went better than I’d hoped,” Matthew said, helping himself to one of his scones. “Is Arthur okay?”_ _

__“He seems fine. He’s upstairs calling Bonnefoy.” Alfred picked up his cup, then sat it back down without tasting the coffee. He was aware of Matthew sitting across the table, watching him. It was amazing, given how much time they’d spent apart growing up, how well they knew each other, and how in tune they were._ _

__“What’s up, Al?”_ _

__Alfred forced himself to look up and face his cousin’s gaze. “I screwed up, Mattie,” he admitted._ _

__Matthew just took another sip of his coffee. “How did you do that?”_ _

__Alfred was just a tad annoyed that Matthew didn’t even look surprised at his confession. “Rule Number Two,” he said bitterly. “I’ve smashed it into little, tiny pieces.” He pressed a fist to his forehead, closed his eyes, and gritted out, “I think I’m in love with our client.” When Matthew didn’t say anything, he opened his eyes to find his cousin’s lips twitching. “It’s not funny,” he growled._ _

__“It kinda is,” Matthew disagreed. “Somehow I just can’t see you and Francis Bonnefoy…”_ _

__Alfred sat bolt upright. “What? What are you even talking about?”_ _

__Matthew was laughing softly at him. “Alfred, you’re an idiot,” he said fondly. “Don’t you remember our contract for this assignment?”_ _

__“If you’ll remember,” Alfred said irritably, “I was kind of busy scouting possible safe houses while you were doing the negotiating. You signed with my Power of Attorney.”_ _

__Matthew nodded and sat back in his chair. “Ah, that would explain it then. I apologize, you’re not an idiot – at least about this.”_ _

__“You know, if you’re just going to sit there and make fun of me, you can leave,” he said sourly, stung that Matthew was treating his situation as such a joke._ _

__“Oh, Al.” Matthew sighed and leaned his arms on the table, giving him an exasperated but undeniably affectionate look. “I’m not making fun of you. I’m just sorry you didn’t say anything sooner. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t want to push you.” He reached across the table and gave Alfred’s arm a brisk pat. “Arthur didn’t sign the contract; Francis did. That makes Francis Bonnefoy our client and Arthur is just…” He shrugged. “Arthur. So you can stop beating yourself up.” He smiled sweetly. “It’s okay to fall in love with him.”_ _

__Alfred blinked at him, stunned. It was okay to fall in love with Arthur. He wasn’t breaking any Rules. There was no tricky employer-employee relationship to muddy everything. He could go to Arthur right now and… He groaned and smacked his forehead. “Matt, I’ve got the worst fucking timing in the history of _ever_ ,” he groaned._ _

__“Now, that I have to agree with,” Matthew said sympathetically. “Just give it some time. I’m sure he’s pretty shaken right now, what with reliving that mess with Carriedo, but there’s still time.”_ _

__“Not much,” Alfred said glumly. “I think he’s almost finished his book, and then he’ll be moving back to New York.”_ _

__“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Matthew said practically. “Just take it one day at a time, eh? And stop worrying so much.” He nudged the plate of scones closer to Alfred. “I think he likes you too.”_ _

__“He didn’t have much choice,” Alfred grumbled. “I mean, I’m just about the only one he’s interacted with since he moved here.” A moment later he jumped, “Ow! What the hell, dude?” He rubbed his shin where his cousin had given him a sharp kick._ _

__“Stop feeling so sorry for yourself and man up,” Matthew ordered with the firmest tone he ever used. “Just give Arthur a little time, and then if you really believe you love him, do something about it.”_ _

__“Tough talk, cowboy,” Alfred threw back, but felt himself beginning to relax, reacting to Matthew’s matter-of-fact advice._ _

__“Yeah, well, sometimes you can’t see what’s right in front of you, Al.”_ _

__Alfred scoffed at that as he snatched a scone from the plate. Nothing escaped his attention. He was _that good_._ _

__

__The next morning, you couldn’t go anywhere on the internet without reading speculation about the interview that would air that evening, and as Liz predicted, the clip she uploaded had, indeed, gone viral. People had screen-capped the clip, and photos of Arthur, looking a little delicate and wistful, sad, thoughtful, hopeful, were everywhere. Alfred smiled as he remembered his first reaction to the photo he’d initially seen of Arthur – “pretty eyes” – and he thought much the same thing now._ _

__On the home front, the security team was firmly in place, and Gilbert had already gleefully chased off a handful of photographers, while the men at the gate had turned back several cars. If all went well, they’d only have to hunker down for another twenty-four hours or so, and then the pack of hounds would be after Carriedo, taking the heat off Arthur._ _

__There was an email from Liz in his in-box and, expecting a thank-you, he clicked on it. Instead, there was a brief note and an URL. ‘Alfred, this is a short clip that won’t be in the aired interview. Thought you might like to see it. Hope you find it enlightening. Regards, Liz.’_ _

__“Enlightening?” Alfred murmured, clicking on the link. “What the hell, Liz, I was there for the entire interview. Don’t think you’re going to show me something I didn’t already see.”_ _

__He brought the video up on his screen and sat back to watch it. It was clip taken from Arthur’s recollection of their road trips. Since he already knew what Arthur had said, he didn’t bother turning up the sound, leaving it playing softly in the background as he watched Arthur’s image. Suddenly he stiffened, and then he saw what Liz had seen, what Mattie had hinted at, and what he’d missed for God knew how long. Arthur had been looking right at him during that part of the interview, and the yearning in his eyes made Alfred’s breath catch in his throat. “Holy fuck,” he whispered. Jumping to his feet, he pumped his fist into the air. “Yes, yes, _yes_!” he hissed. Then he dropped back down in his chair and tried to calm his breathing while he chewed on his lower lip._ _

__He hit the forward button and sent Liz’s email off to Mattie, while calling him with his other hand. He didn’t give his cousin a chance to say hello before he said, “Check your email. Watch the clip, then call me back.” Then he hit disconnect and sat back in his chair. He brought up the clip again, freezing it halfway through, and waited for Mattie to call._ _

__It didn’t take long, and he answered with, “Well?”_ _

__Matthew’s sigh gusted over the phone. “Did I not tell you that sometimes you can’t see what’s right in front of you?”_ _

__“Mat-tie,” he whined._ _

__“Nothing has changed, Al. You think you love him, he thinks he loves you, and the timing is still wrong. Just hang in there and don’t do anything stupid.”_ _

__“How come all the advice I’ve ever gotten from you comes down to ‘don’t do anything stupid’?_ _

__“Hey, it’s good advice.” Alfred continued to stare at the frozen image of Arthur, his pretty eyes staring right at him from the screen, and chewed on his thumb. “Alfred,” Mattie said finally, “you know it’s not the right time. He’s in the middle of a media circus, he’s trying to finish his book, and he had all kinds of bad memories stirred up with that interview. I don’t think the guy can take much more stress at the moment, and you know this kind of thing is stressful.”_ _

__“I know, I know,” Alfred groaned._ _

__“Then just give it time, let things settle down. Then you’ll give yourselves a chance to make it work.”_ _

__“Okay, yeah.” Alfred ran a hand through his hair. “I just needed to hear it. I’m fine.”_ _

__“Are you sure?”_ _

__“Yep, I’m sure. I’m fine.” Gazing at the image on his screen, he felt a smile touch his lips. “I’m fine.”_ _

__

__Arthur had an air of lightness about him that hadn’t been there before, and a nervous energy that Alfred had come to recognize as his ‘writing mode’ when his burning desire to write overcame everything else. After breakfast Arthur spent his days in his study, taking sandwiches at his desk for lunch, and only coming out for dinner because Alfred put his foot down. Alfred didn’t bother trying to coax him into a movie night, because it was obvious Arthur wouldn’t have his mind on it._ _

__Liz had couriered a copy of the interview to him, and Matthew had sent one to Francis. He hadn’t dared turn on the TV the evening it aired in case Arthur had walked in on him, but he did watch the DVD on his laptop, and knew they’d made the right decision to do this interview, at least for Arthur’s sake. The day after the interview aired, the internet exploded and the tabloids could write of nothing else. Alfred grinned gleefully as he saw photo after photo of Antonio Carriedo as he tried to negotiate the sidewalks of New York. He didn’t look quite as happy and carefree as he had in the Mediterranean, and he didn’t have that little blonde on his arm any longer. In fact, Liz had called him with some interesting gossip regarding Carriedo, and Francis had called him not ten minutes later, to tell him the same thing. Alfred smiled grimly; talk about the shit hitting the fan. Yeah, karma was a bitch._ _

__Francis had been treating him a lot more genially since the interview, and although he didn’t have some weird-ass French pronunciation of his name like Matthew did, he was being called ‘Alfred’ now instead of ‘Jones’ and the agent had invited Alfred to call him by his first name. He briefly wondered if he was going to have to ask Bonnefoy’s permission to court Arthur…_ _

__Arthur didn’t ask about the interview or what was being reported in the tabloids or the internet, and Alfred didn’t bring it up. His job was what it had always been: ensure that Arthur had the peace and means to write his book._ _

__They had three days of peace, and Alfred should have known it couldn’t last. He was cleaning up after lunch when his phone buzzed. He frowned when he saw it was Ludwig, who usually dealt with security issues without consultation, and answered warily. After a few minutes, he cursed under his breath, told Ludwig to wait until he called him back, then went to Arthur’s study._ _

__Taking a breath, he rapped sharply on the door, then entered without waiting for the reply he knew he wouldn’t get anyhow. Arthur was frowning at the screen of his laptop, but typing steadily._ _

__“Arthur, I need to talk to you.”_ _

__Arthur didn’t look away from the screen. “Later, Alfred,” he said shortly._ _

__“No, it has to be now.” He moved over to stand beside the writer. “Artie, save your work, we need to talk.”_ _

__Arthur’s fingers froze on the keys, and he glanced up at Alfred. Then he went through the process that had been drummed into him – save to hard drive, save to backup drive, email document to himself – and only then sat back in his chair and looked at Alfred, his mouth tight. “If this is merely your way of getting me to take a break –”_ _

__“I wish,” Alfred murmured under his breath. He straightened his shoulders and said evenly, “Ludwig just called. There’s someone at the gate who insists on seeing you.”_ _

__Arthur just looked bewildered, then irritated, “Why on earth would you interrupt me –”_ _

__“It’s Antonio.”_ _

__Arthur’s eyes widened. “He’s here?”_ _

__Alfred nodded. “Ludwig says he’s causing quite a scene.”_ _

__Arthur gave a mirthless snort. “Yes, he’s quite good at that.” Then he sighed heavily and gently closed the lid of his laptop. “You’d better tell Ludwig to let him through.”_ _

__“You don’t have to see him,” Alfred said swiftly. “You don’t owe him anything.”_ _

__Arthur looked a little startled at Alfred’s insistent tone, but he nodded agreement. “No, I don’t. But I don’t like the way we left things between us. I don’t like all the anger and hurt I’ve been carrying around, and I’d actually welcome the chance to get some closure.”_ _

__Alfred frowned; this wasn’t the reaction he was expecting at all, and uneasiness stirred in his stomach. What if Arthur still had feelings for Carriedo? What if the actor came here to try to woo Arthur back? What if Arthur _wanted_ to be woo’d? _ _

__“Alfred?” Arthur was looking up at him with a little frown._ _

__Alfred gave his head a little shake to banish those thoughts. “Okay,” he said, a little more sharply than he intended. “But here’s the thing – I totally respect your privacy, but there’s no way I’m letting you meet with him alone.”_ _

__Arthur’s eyebrows shot up as he stared at Alfred’s stubborn face, then his face softened. “Alfred,” he said finally, his voice gentle, “I’m not afraid of him, and Antonio poses absolutely no threat to me.”_ _

__“I don’t care,” he said mulishly. “Look, I know you said you don’t want to know anything about what’s going on in the media, but I need to tell you this much: in the court of public opinion, Carriedo has been tried, found guilty, and sentenced. I can’t think he’s happy about that. I’ll stay out of the way, but I don’t think you should meet with him alone.”_ _

__“You don’t think I should meet with him at all.”_ _

__Alfred privately conceded that, but kept his mouth shut._ _

__Arthur sighed as he got to his feet. “All right, I won’t meet with him alone.” He looked around and something shifted in his expression. “But I’ll see him in the garden; I don’t want him in the house.” And with that, he turned and strode out the door into the garden. But the rigidity of his back and the tense set to his shoulders told Alfred he wasn’t as calm about this meeting as he wanted Alfred to believe._ _

__

__As promised, after Alfred escorted Carriedo to the garden where Arthur waited, he stepped back into the background, but he kept an eye on the actor. Carriedo had been under a lot of pressure since Arthur’s interview aired, and even if Arthur wasn’t afraid of him, Alfred wasn’t prepared to trust him._ _

__The first thing Carriedo did when he saw Arthur standing stiffly by the lawn table, was to start across the lawn toward him, arms outstretched as if to gather him into a gigantic hug. “ _Mi amor_!” he cried._ _

__When Arthur stiffened and took a step back, Alfred quickly strode across the lawn and put himself between them, his hand flat against Carriedo’s chest. “That’s close enough, _amigo_.” That was the extent of his Spanish, but he thought it would probably be sufficient._ _

__The actor shot him a venomous look. “You have a bodyguard now?” He turned a wounded look at Arthur. “You think you need a bodyguard with _me_?”_ _

__Alfred snorted. This guy wouldn’t earn any Oscars with his over-the-top show of hurt betrayal. If he’d been wearing a string of pearls he’d be clutching them and swooning._ _

__“Alfred is my personal assistant,” Arthur said crisply, obviously not taken in by Antonio’s bad acting. “What did you want, Antonio?”_ _

__Antonio opened his hands as if it were all self-explanatory. “Arturo, _mi querida_ , I have come to tell you that I have come to my senses. I know what a terrible mistake I have made; I should never have let you go.”_ _

__Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “You mean, you never should have _cheated_ ,” he corrected._ _

__“Yes, yes,” Carriedo said quickly, “that is what I meant. I was a fool.” He took a tentative step toward Arthur; Alfred kept pace. Another poisonous glare from the actor; Alfred offered a sharp smile in response. “I have missed you so much.”_ _

__“What about Kristin? Or is it Kirsten? Or Christy? I never was quite sure of her name.”_ _

__“We are no more,” Carriedo explained, flicking a hand as if to make his blonde bimbo and his whole affair disappear. He took another wary step forward; Alfred followed. “It was a mistake, Arturo, a mistake.”_ _

__Arthur had folded his arms across his chest and leveled a steady gaze at his former lover. “When did you discover it was a mistake?” he asked in a dangerous tone. “Was it when you left me standing in a church filled with our friends on our wedding day? Or when you used the tickets I had bought to run off to the Mediterranean? Or was it when you were posing for every paparazzi in Europe showing everyone how happy you were?”_ _

__This was obviously not going the way Carriedo had hoped it would, so he tried another tack. “Arturo, I am _sorry_ ,” he apologized, his voice beseeching. “I am sorry for everything I said and did. I never wanted to hurt you. Please, will you tell me you forgive me?”_ _

__Alfred took his eyes off Antonio long enough to shoot Arthur a glance. Arthur’s face was expressionless as he gazed at Carriedo, but his arms had tightened around his chest. Suddenly his body seemed to relax, and he nodded. “Yes, I forgive you.”_ _

__Carriedo gave a cry of relief and started toward Arthur. This time Alfred wasn’t as gentle when he slammed his hand into his chest to stop him. He really hoped he left a bruise._ _

__“But I’m not doing it for you; I’m doing it for me. I refuse to live the rest of my life carrying all this anger and hurt inside me, and the only way to do that is to forgive you and move on.” Arthur straightened and lowered his arms. “I deserved better,” he said firmly. “And I certainly deserve better than a partner who cheats on me. So now that you’ve gotten what you’ve come for, I’d like you to please leave.”_ _

__Antonio’s face fell. “But, Arturo, I have apologized and you have forgiven me! Surely, we can start over! I still love you! Please,” he pleaded, “give me another chance.”_ _

__Now that Alfred was certain of Arthur’s feelings toward Antonio (and yay!) he decided he’d remained silent long enough. Stepping back from Carriedo, he cocked his head and studied the actor with a smug smile. “Things not going too well for you, are they, Carriedo?” The look Carriedo gave him was the filthiest yet. “That’s a shitload of bad PR you’ve gotten yourself into, isn’t it? I hear the hate mail’s piling up at the studio, and since your contract is up for renewal, it’s not looking good, is it?” Both Liz and Francis had heard that the network didn’t want Carriedo back for the new season of his TV series, and rumor was the script had already been written where his character was killed off. Of course, if he reconciled with Arthur, well, everyone loved a love story, and he might be able to redeem himself and keep his job._ _

__Carriedo’s face darkened under his normally tan skin and his expression turned ugly. Pointing a finger at Arthur he snarled, “You’re not the only one who can give an interview. You think people don’t want to hear _my_ side? Oh, I have many things I can tell, _mi pequeno amigo_.” Alfred didn’t know what he’d just said, but Carriedo made it sound like an insult. “Many things, and I will tell them all. We’ll see what your publisher and your fans think after I have finished!”_ _

__Arthur’s face was pale, but he didn’t look anxious, and after basically living in each other’s pockets over the last several months, Alfred thought the darkest secret anyone could expose about Arthur was that he knew all the lyrics to the songs of _Camelot_._ _

__“I suppose you’ll have to do whatever you feel you must,” Arthur said quietly._ _

__“Oh, I _will_ ,” he promised angrily. “And then we will see who laughs last.”_ _

__“And I think that’s enough out of you, Chuckles,” Alfred decided, taking Carriedo firmly by the arm and pulling him in the direction of the gate. Alfred really hoped Carriedo took a swing at him; he had both muscle and height on the guy, and he planned to go straight for the face. The actor began to struggle, but he must have seen the dangerous glint in Alfred’s eye, because he stopped and allowed himself to taken from the garden and escorted back out to his car._ _

__

__After turning Carriedo’s escort duty over to Gilbert, who looked like he was going to enjoy himself, Alfred hurried back into the garden. Arthur was sitting on the white iron bench, legs crossed, staring out across the garden while the index finger of his right hand traced idly over the surface of the table. Alfred sat down beside him and waited in silence._ _

__“Was that true, what you said? About his contract?”_ _

__“That’s the word on the street. No network wants that kind of PR nightmare on their hands, and the ratings for his show have taken a dive.”_ _

__After several moments, Arthur mused out loud, “You know, it wasn’t that long ago that I would have given anything to have Antonio ask me to give him another chance.”_ _

__“Would you?”_ _

__Arthur let out a long, heavy sigh. “Probably.” When Alfred didn’t say anything, he asked quietly, “Are you disappointed in me?”_ _

__“Not my place to be disappointed, Artie.” He stared hard at Arthur’s profile, his voice intense, “I just wish I knew who it was that did this to you, because I’d happily hunt them down and knock them into next month.”_ _

__Arthur’s head snapped around and his stared at Alfred, green eyes wide with shock. “Did what?”_ _

__“Made you think that a douchebag like that was good enough for you,” Alfred said angrily, caution and Mattie’s warnings flying right out the proverbial window. “Jesus Christ, Arthur, you’re _amazing_. You’re smart, you’re talented, you’re funny, and you’re…” His voice caught and he couldn’t stop his hand from cupping Arthur’s face. “You’re fucking _gorgeous_ ,” he finished in a whisper. Arthur’s eyes were huge, and they swept over Alfred’s face as if looking for something._ _

__Finally Arthur said hoarsely, “Do you really believe all that?”_ _

__“You bet’cha,” he said fervently. He felt Arthur’s fingers grip the sleeve of his shirt as he seemed to be steeling himself for something._ _

__“Then why are you all the way over there?”_ _

__There was a sharp little tug on his sleeve, and Alfred went happily. Having his arms full of an enthusiastic, willing Arthur Kirkland was all he could have hoped for. Arthur’s lithe body fit perfectly against his, and Arthur’s hand threaded into the thick hair at the back of his neck, gripping tightly. Alfred responded by slipping his arm around Arthur’s lower back and pulling him in more closely. Their mouths didn’t fit together perfectly at first, there was some awkwardness, a bumping of noses, the frames of Alfred’s glasses got in the way; then Arthur turned his head _just so_ , and it _was_ perfect._ _

__

__It was all Arthur had fantasized about, and more. Alfred was making approving little noises in the back of his throat, his strong arm pressing Arthur tightly against his chest. And a very nice chest it was too, Arthur thought in the tiny corner of his mind that wasn’t busy being submerged in the feel, taste, and touch of Alfred F. Jones. Alfred’s tongue requested admittance to his mouth, and Arthur willingly obliged. He realized somewhat to his embarrassment that those sounds of needy little moans were coming from him._ _

__Finally, they both pulled away at the same time, needing to breathe, but didn’t move apart very far. Alfred’s eyes were very, very blue behind the lens of his glasses, and Arthur could feel Alfred’s breath on his face. Arthur raised a tentative hand and gently touched the side of Alfred’s face. The American’s eyes slid shut and he turned his face into the palm of Arthur’s hand, nuzzling it._ _

__“I’d hoped,” Arthur whispered, his voice a little hoarse, “but I wasn’t sure.”_ _

__“Oh, you can be sure,” Alfred said immediately, opening his eyes and looking directly at Arthur, moving his hands to frame Arthur’s face. “You can be very, very sure.”_ _

__Alfred was looking at him with such earnest intensity that Arthur dropped his hand and lowered his gaze, feeling his cheeks heat up. “I’m so bad at this, Alfred,” he murmured, his stomach churning with misery as he thought of all his failed attempts at love. “I’ve had so many failed relationships. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”_ _

__“Hey.” The sharpness of Alfred’s tone brought Arthur’s eyes up quickly, and he would have flinched away, except Alfred kept hold of his face, his thumbs gently caressing Arthur’s cheeks. “I wish you wouldn’t talk about yourself that way.” There was a spark of anger in his eyes, but Arthur realized it wasn’t directed at him. “And I really wish I knew who it was that did this to you, because I would kick. Their. Ass.”_ _

__Arthur felt himself relax a little as he looked in some wonder at the man opposite him; Arthur knew he had Issues, but Francis was the only who had ever recognized his insecurities for what they were and tried to do something about them. “It was a very long time ago,” he said, smiling slightly, “and someday I’ll tell you.”_ _

__Alfred gave him a long look, then nodded slowly, giving his face one more caress before dropping his hands.. “Okay,” he agreed. “I’m gonna hold you to that.”_ _

__Arthur stared at the man who was looking at him with so much yearning, and suddenly he wanted to cry. “Oh, Alfred,” he sighed, his shoulders slumping. “I – I can’t. Not now.” He felt like tearing his hair out in frustration. “Bloody hell, I can’t fucking believe this. Please understand –”_ _

__“You’ve got a book to finish,” Alfred said calmly. “I know.”_ _

__“I’m sorry,” Arthur apologized helplessly. Would he think Arthur cared more about the book he was writing than him? Antonio had certainly thought that, and had said so often enough. “I can’t default on this contract. I have to meet my deadline.” He realized he was sounding more and more desperate, but he couldn’t help himself. “It’s not that I don’t want –”_ _

__“Hey, hey, hey.” Alfred laid a gentle finger over his lips, stilling him. “I get it. I know how important this book is to you.”_ _

__Arthur felt himself relaxing at Alfred’s reassurance, then he smiled ruefully. “Yes, well, I’m not sure you realize how bloody tempting it is to forget about that book right now,” he said dryly. “But I’m very much afraid if I got you into bed now, I’d never want to get back out.”_ _

__Alfred’s smile stretched until he was beaming. “Now that _does_ sound promising.” He took one of Arthur’s hands in his and gave it a squeeze. “Don’t think I’m going to let you forget that either.”_ _

__Arthur looked up at him under his eyelashes. “As if I’d want to forget that.” Flirting! My god, how long had it been since he’d actually _flirted_ with someone? And that someone had flirted back? From the look on Alfred’s face, he should remember what he was doing, because it was definitely having an effect on the other man._ _

__Alfred’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Then that’s one more incentive for you to get that book done on time.”_ _

__“That’s incentive enough, love.” It was only because Alfred’s hand was wrapped around his that he felt the shiver that went through the other man. _Ah_. Interesting. Something else to file away for later._ _

__Alfred leaned in again and fitted his mouth to Arthur’s. But this time the kiss was brief and sweet before he pulled away with a regretful sigh. “I need to call Francis.”_ _

__Arthur started. “What? Why?”_ _

__“If Carriedo’s going to give an interview – and he’ll find a willing tabloid without any problem – I’ve got to give Francis a heads-up, and he’ll want to give your publisher the same. Frankly, I don’t think anything’s going to come of it, certainly nothing like the falling out from your interview, but he has to be told.”_ _

__“Of course. I should have thought of that.”_ _

__“Hey, that’s why they pay me the big bucks,” Alfred said cheekily. He ran a thumb over Arthur’s hand. “And I’m telling him about us.”_ _

__“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Alfred,” he said warily. “He’s just going to think you’re distracting me from writing.” And that was the least of what Francis would think, the frog._ _

__“I’ll set him straight. Look, he’s just now starting to warm up to me, and when he finds out about this later, he’s going think I’ve been lying to him.” Alfred hesitated, then said carefully, “And I get the idea you two are pretty close, so I want to stay on his good side.”_ _

__Arthur could hear the unspoken question in his tone, and he huffed a soft laugh. “Yes, for two people who met as roommates at uni and despised each other on sight, we did end up becoming very good friends.” He tilted his head, looking at Alfred with open affection on his face. “Francis has been more of a brother to me than my own brothers,” he explained softly. “And he’s had to pick up the pieces quite a few times when I’ve had…problems.”_ _

__Alfred nodded in understanding, eyes glinting with wry humor. “Not a guy I want to piss off.” He flashed a bright grin. “So, with all those research trips we took, you should be able to move right ahead with your book, right? Any more trips we have to take? If so, just let me know because, I don’t want anything to slow down…” He trailed off and looked at Arthur with some confusion. “Arthur?”_ _

__Arthur knew his face had gone from British-pale to blood red in a matter of seconds, and now Alfred knew something was wrong. Bugger. Well, he wasn’t going to start off a relationship – if that’s indeed what this was – with a lie. So he took a deep breath, steeled himself, and confessed, “All those excursions weren’t exactly for research.”_ _

__Alfred didn’t look angry, just curious. “What do you mean?”_ _

__Arthur squirmed a little on his seat, but Alfred gave his hand a little squeeze of encouragement, so he looked him in the eye. “The first two trips, to Dover and Canterbury, were for research, and they were invaluable.” He cleared his throat delicately. “But the other excursions I asked you to arrange…weren’t for the book.”_ _

__Alfred looked confused. “Then what were they for?” Then suddenly his face cleared and he beamed in delight. “They were _dates_!” he crowed. “We were on dates, weren’t we, Artie?”_ _

__“Well, I’m not sure they can be considered dates if one partner didn’t know about it,” Arthur grumbled. “I simply enjoyed spending time with you,” he said primly, trying to regain some of his tattered pride._ _

__“No, no, they were totally dates! This is awesome!”_ _

__Arthur blinked at him in surprise. Alfred wasn’t angry or creeped out, or anything other than absolutely elated. He was laughing, his blue eyes bright with both amusement and affection._ _

__“Don’t you see? We don’t have to worry about that awkward first date thing or the three-date-rule.”_ _

__“What’s the three-date-rule?” Arthur asked, baffled. When Alfred just waggled his eyebrows ridiculously, Arthur felt his face heat up again. Then he was pulled tight against Alfred’s chest and wrapped in a warm hug._ _

__“You’re so cute,” Alfred whispered in his ear, placing a kiss on his temple._ _

__“I am _not_ cute,” he cried, outraged._ _

__“Yeah,” Alfred chuckled, “you really are.” He seemed to be content nuzzling Arthur’s hair, and Arthur was certainly content to allow him. “I guess this solves one mystery,” Alfred mused._ _

__“Hmm? What’s that?”_ _

__“Well, I was trying to figure out how you were going to use all those things in your book – you know, Dover Castle with the World War Two tunnels, Stonehenge with all the Druid stuff, Victory with Nelson, and all those Welsh castles we visited.”_ _

__Arthur was busy cataloging the feel of Alfred under his hands as he ran his hands along his back, his sides, and was only half listening. “And what did you decide?”_ _

__“Mattie told me it couldn’t be, but I was sure it was time travel!” Alfred sighed then, and sounded a little disappointed. “But I guess not, huh?”_ _

__It was Arthur’s turn to press a little kiss to Alfred’s ear. “No, love, not time travel.” He got another little shiver, and he smirked to himself. _Bingo_. _ _

__“Maybe next book then.”_ _

__“Umm hmm. We’ll see, love.”_ _

__Alfred laughed and Arthur felt it rumble pleasantly through his body. “Okay, now you’re just messing with me.”_ _

__“Perhaps,” he admitted, smiling. Or just trying out a few things._ _

__“Totally okay with that, babe.”_ _

__Arthur twitched. _Babe?_ Really?_ _

__Alfred hummed. “Or…snookums.”_ _

__Arthur twitched violently. He wouldn’t _dare_._ _

__Alfred chuckled huskily, then lowered his voice and whispered moistly into Arthur’s ear. “Or maybe...sweetheart.”_ _

__Arthur couldn’t help it. He _shivered_ , full body._ _

__“Oh, I think we have a winner. And there’s always…” He slipped into what Arthur could only imagine was a Texas drawl. “Darlin’.”_ _

__Arthur swallowed, his breath catching. Then he sniffed, “Wanker.”_ _

__“Is that another endearment?” Alfred asked with false innocence. “Because I like the other one better.” Then he pulled away and looked a little embarrassed. “I guess this is the place I confess that I was calling our movie nights date nights in my head.”_ _

__Arthur’s eyebrows shot up, and a slow smile curved his lips. And Alfred called _him_ cute. “Well, it looks like we’ve had more dates than we realized.”_ _

__“Yep. I’d say we’re practically going steady.” Alfred grinned impishly. “Wait until I tell Francis _that_.”_ _

__

__The phone conversation with Francis went better than he’d hoped. Although, by the time he got off the phone he felt like he’d been cross-examined by a Victorian father about his intentions toward his innocent daughter. Still, it could’ve been worse; after all, Francis didn’t fire him._ _

__The next few weeks fell into a pleasant routine, enlivened by the fact that the two men were now ultra-aware of each other anytime they were in the same room. There were brushes of hands as they passed, shy stolen glances, sweet greeting kisses in the morning, lingering kisses at night, and always longing looks and regretful sighs when they parted, each to their own bedrooms._ _

__Breakfast was usually a brisk affair, with Arthur eager to get back to his writing, and lunch was sandwiches at his desk. Alfred was content to stay out of Arthur’s way – not that he had much choice when Arthur was so intensely single-minded about his writing – but dinner was sacrosanct, and he wouldn’t let anything interfere with that. Six o’clock was quitting time, and Arthur had quickly learned that he either left his study under his own power, or he left it under Alfred’s. (And although Arthur had protested loudly the time Alfred had scooped him up and carried him out to the dinner table, Alfred didn’t think he had minded all that much.) And Arthur’s reaction had been gratifying the time he’d set up a romantic candlelight dinner, complete with soft jazz playing in the background and a meal courtesy of hours spent on the phone with Mattie while he battled the intricacies of sauces, perfectly seared salmon and no-lump mashed potatoes._ _

__Movie nights had turned into ‘making out on the sofa in front of the TV’ nights while an unwatched movie played in the background. But, try as he might, Alfred hadn’t been able to coax Arthur out for a ride in the woods or a walk ever since those journalists had showed up at their door. Even though the security was no longer necessary and they hadn’t been bothered by anyone else showing up, Arthur was still skittish about the possibility of paparazzi lying in wait. But Alfred didn’t want to Arthur to think of this place as a prison, so one Saturday afternoon, instead of taking Arthur his plate of sandwiches and tea, he walked into his study and stood at his desk, jangling his car keys in front of Arthur’s nose._ _

__Arthur jerked back, then blinked up at Alfred. “Alfred, what --?”_ _

__“Artie, it’s a beautiful day, and you need fresh air. Let’s go out to eat.”_ _

__“Go out?” Arthur asked warily. “Where?”_ _

__“The village. There’s a great little restaurant there. I’ve never eaten there myself, but I know it’s good because it’s always packed every time I go through town.” When Arthur looked like he was about to object, Alfred changed to wheedling. “Come on, Artie. _Please_. It’s good to support the local economy, and it would be good for us to get out. We’ve been cooped up here too long.”_ _

__Arthur’s expression immediately softened. “Oh, Alfred, you don’t need to stay here with me. Why don’t you go? I don’t mind.”_ _

__But Alfred shook his head firmly. “Nope. Not going without you.”_ _

__Arthur looked like he was going to argue, then looked at Alfred’s face and Alfred knew he had won._ _

__

__“What do you think?”_ _

__Arthur took another bite of his Chicken Tikka Masala and closed his eyes in bliss. “There’s a restaurant in New York that does a very credible version, but I must say, this is excellent.”_ _

__“Knew you’d like this place,” Alfred said smugly._ _

__“Yes, yes. Do you ever get tired of being right?” Arthur asked dryly._ _

__“Nope.”_ _

__Arthur had initially been tense when they entered the restaurant, and indeed, all the patrons were stealing looks and they could hear some whispering. But everyone turned back to their meals, and the waitress, a young girl with a tattoo what looked like angel wings on her upper arm, was pleasant and polite, and best of all, no camera phones made an appearance. As they ate their lunch, Arthur visibly relaxed, then chuckled softly. When Alfred looked up, Arthur smiled wryly and said, “Thank god for good ol’ British reserve.” Alfred had to agree._ _

__They had just started in on their gelatos – boring old vanilla for Arthur and crème brule for Alfred – the overhead door bell chimed as someone walked in. It was only because Alfred was facing the door that he automatically looked, and his attention immediately sharpened as the newcomer froze when he spotted Alfred. Alfred recognized the teenager with the lanky red hair as the one who usually waited on him at the news agents, and from the way the kid blushed guiltily to the roots of his hair and immediately turned and left the diner, he knew who it was who had tipped off the tabloids. Well, it all had a happy ending, Alfred mused, eating his dessert, but still, the next time he was in town he was going to stop by the new agents and have a little chat with him about the importance of privacy in everyone’s lives. The kid could consider it a life lesson._ _

__

__Then one morning Alfred came down to breakfast and was greeted by the sight of Arthur sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, and the smell of burnt toast in the air. Ah, it was Arthur Versus the Toaster again. And the toaster had won. Again. “Mornin’, sunshine,” he said brightly, dropping a kiss on the top of Arthur’s head. “You’re up early.” Then he took another look at Arthur’s clothes, recognizing his outfit from the day before. “Or rather, up late.”_ _

__“That toaster’s broken, Alfred,” the Brit said flatly. “It won’t pop the toast up properly.”_ _

__“Mmm hmm.” Alfred had heard it all before and went about putting fresh slices of bread into the toaster as he grinned over his shoulder. “For some reason the appliances all seem to misbehave when you use them, Artie.”_ _

__Arthur just scowled and returned to his tea, but Alfred heard the muttered, “Must be _American_ appliances.”_ _

__Within a few minutes, Alfred placed a plate of beautifully toasted bread in front of Arthur and a fresh pot of tea, then sat down opposite him with his own cup of coffee. It was only then that he noticed the little thumb drive Arthur was turning over and over in his hands, his expression distracted. Alfred was curious, but he waited patiently. Finally, Arthur sighed heavily and placed the thumb drive on the table between them._ _

__“I finished the book.”_ _

__Alfred set his cup down with heavy thump and broke into a wide smile. “Arthur, that’s _great_.”_ _

__Arthur returned his bright smile with a small one. “I’ve sent it off to Francis, so he’ll have it when he wakes up this morning.” Then his gaze returned to the thumb drive and he took a deep breath. “Alfred,” he began in a hesitant tone, “remember when I said that one day I would tell you about…my past. About why I am the way I am.” He looked up and Alfred nodded carefully; Arthur looked like he might bolt at a wrong word, so he kept his mouth shut. Arthur ran his tongue over his lips, then continued. “This book is completely different from anything I’ve written before. The names have been changed to protect the guilty, the locations have been changed, and several other things, but much of this is the story of…who I am.” He looked up again, his expression serious and a little worried. “I’m not comfortable talking about it, but I’d like you to read it. If – if you want to, that is.”_ _

__Alfred’s fingers closed around the thumb drive, afraid Arthur might decide to snatch it away. “Of course I want to,” he said, holding Arthur’s gaze. Then with his other hand, he reached across the table and gripped Arthur’s twitching hand. “Artie, nothing I find out is going to change the way I feel about you. That I can promise.”_ _

__Arthur gave his head a jerky shake, but didn’t look convinced._ _

__“What’s it called?”_ _

__Arthur’s face went expressionless. “Cuckoo in the Nest.”_ _

__Alfred nodded. “Okay. Can I read it now?” The little drive felt like it was burning a hole in his hand. He wanted to go up to his room, plug it into his iPad and start reading._ _

__“Yes, if you’d like.”_ _

__“Excellent.” Alfred pushed away from the table, poured himself another cup of coffee, then paused beside Arthur, who was still sitting, empty cup on his hand. “What about you, sweetheart?”_ _

__“I plan to take an obscenely long bath, sleep until I wake up, and then begin reading some of those books I bought in Hay-on-Wye…and stay well clear of my laptop.”_ _

__“Sounds like a perfect plan to me.” Alfred leaned over and gave him a kiss that he hoped was both reassuring and comforting. “I’ll see you later, okay? There are cold cuts in the fridge for sandwiches and fixings for a salad. Make sure you eat something.”_ _

__“I’ll be fine. I shouldn’t require any appliances to make a sandwich,” Arthur said dryly and gave him the first real smile of the morning._ _

__

__Arthur had taken his obscenely long bath, complete with lavender scented bath salts, but knowing Alfred was just down the hall reading his book he was too unsettled to do more than nap for four hours, before he was up again. Remembering Alfred’s admonishments, he fixed himself a sandwich and took his tea and lunch into the study with him. There he sat, trying to read and trying to keep his mind off the fact that Alfred was upstairs, reading what he had written about himself._ _

__He was barely aware of the light at the window dimming as he got up to make the occasional cup of tea and put some biscuits on a plate before returning to his reading. He’d closed the door to the study and was lost in a particularly beautiful copy of David Copperfield when the door to the study crashed open. He was so startled he dropped the book and jumped to his feet on reflex, his heart pounding in his chest. He only had an instant to recognize the form of Alfred in the doorway before the man strode across the floor and he was engulfed in a suffocating full body hug. All he could feel was the American wrapped around him, his strong arms pressing him tightly to his body._ _

__“Alfred – what --?” He could feel Alfred’s breath hitch, but the man didn’t reply, and it was then that Arthur understood. “Oh, love,” he said gently, rubbing a hand in soothing circles on the muscled back. “It’s all right.”_ _

__“No – no, it’s not all right!” Alfred pulled away far enough to grip Arthur by the shoulders, his expression stricken. “Arthur, nothing about that was _all right_.”_ _

__Gently, but firmly, Arthur wrapped his hands around Alfred’s wrists and pulled his hands from his shoulders; still holding them, he said, “Let’s sit down.”_ _

__Alfred didn’t even look to see if the hassock was behind him, he just sat when Arthur did, and the two stared at one another for a long moment before Arthur sighed. “It was a long time ago.”_ _

__Alfred swallowed, then asked, “The title, was that…?”_ _

__“That was me,” Arthur said evenly. “The cuckoo in the nest. The one who didn’t belong.”_ _

__Alfred shook his head, his eyes a little wild. “I don’t understand. How could anyone – how could your mother – you were just a kid!”_ _

__Arthur nodded. “Yes, and as a child growing up, I couldn’t understand why my father – or rather, the person I thought was my father – hated me. Or why my mother wanted nothing to do with me, never showed me the kind of affection she showed my brothers. It took me a very long time, a lot of therapy, and more than a little help from Francis, for me to understand: to the person I thought was my father, I was just a piece of ever-present evidence of his wife’s betrayal, and to my mother, I was a constant reminder of her unhappiness.”_ _

__Alfred looked utterly bewildered. “But why? Why did she stay with an asshole like that?”_ _

__“Where would she have gone, Alfred?” he asked matter-of-factly. “She worked in a Woolworth’s. She didn’t have enough money to live on her own, let alone with a child, even if she’d wanted to. And I promise you, her parents would never have taken her in, especially if they’d known she was carrying a little bastard.”_ _

__“But why didn’t he, I don’t know, just kick her out?”_ _

__“What better punishment,” Arthur answered softly, “than to keep us both prisoners in that house, trapped in his anger and retribution. You have to admit, as punishments go, it was inspired.”_ _

__Alfred’s hands turned until they were gripping his tightly. “What it was, was child abuse,” he said fiercely. “Are you telling me that no one – _no one_ – saw what was going on and yanked you out of there?”_ _

__“Darling, you’d be surprised the things that go on behind closed doors that no one every knows about. And it wasn’t so much abuse as it was…emotional neglect. I had proper clothes, even if they were hand-me-downs from my brothers – that wasn’t unusual in our neighborhood - I went to school, I got good grades; I loved going to school, it got me out of the house for a full day and I made the most of it. I had one close friend, a boy named Tino, who came from a big family, but I was never allowed to bring him home. So there really wasn’t anything for anyone to see, no red flags, as it were.” He paused, and then added in a steady voice, “I was simply unloved.”_ _

__Alfred was squeezing his hands in what Arthur imagined was supposed to be a soothing gesture, but it was more restless and agitated than calming. “And you didn’t get away until you went to college.”_ _

__“I didn’t find out the truth until I was seventeen. Frank – the man married to my mum – and Mum were having a screaming argument. Usually they just ignored each other, but this time something set Frank off, and he hit her. Even though she’d never stuck up for me or even paid much attention to me, she was my mum, and I suppose I never stopped hoping she would love me like she loved my brothers. So, like an idiot, I stepped in and tried to protect her.” He shook his head, remembering. “Frank threw me into a wall, and then it all came out. He told me everything; he took real pleasure in telling me I wasn’t his son and that my real father never wanted me.” He shrugged. “I showed up at Tino’s with a black eye, a split lip, and a suitcase filled with more books than clothes. It was near the end of the school year, and his family knew I’d be going off to uni in the fall on full scholarship, so they let me stay with them. They didn’t ask any questions, but I imagine they drew their own conclusions because Tino’s mother made a phone call to Mum to tell her I’d be staying with them, and that was the end of it.” He looked down at their joined hands. “They never tried to contact me.”_ _

__“Hey.” Suddenly Arthur’s upper arms were in Alfred’s grip, and he looked up. “You’ve got a family,” Alfred said fiercely. “You’ve got me, and you’ve got Francis, and you’ve got Mattie, who already thinks you’re the best thing since maple syrup. And, hell, you’ve got the whole agency – you’ve already met most of them, and they all think you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He stopped and took a calming breath. “And you are. You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me, so you’ve _got_ family, okay?”_ _

__Alfred’s earnest speech almost took his breath away, and Arthur felt a small, but genuine smile on his lips as he nodded agreement. “Okay,” he said softly. “More than okay.”_ _

__Alfred stared at him for a moment, his eyes very blue and very intense, and then he seemed to sag and leaned forward, resting his forehead against Arthur’s. “I always sucked at book reports in school,” he said, “but what you wrote was fuckin’ amazing. And I can’t believe you survived that and turned into the person you are today. You’ve got more guts than I do.”_ _

__“Books saved me,” Arthur murmured. “They were my escape. Nothing could hurt me there. Then, once I got to uni, I was free.” He began running a hand up and down Alfred’s tense back in an effort to calm him and when he felt him relax under his touch, he said lightly, “You’re forgetting one thing: I finished the book.”_ _

__Alfred hummed. “I know. I just read it.”_ _

__“No, Alfred,” he repeated with more meaning. “I finished. The book.”_ _

__That sank in, and Alfred pulled back, a slow grin splitting his face. “So you did. Does that mean…?”_ _

__Suddenly uncertain, Arthur’s gaze slid away. “If you want it to.”_ _

__“Your room or mine?” Alfred replied instantly._ _

__“My bed’s bigger.”_ _

__“Your room it is.” Alfred sprang to his feet, and before Arthur could move, he’d swooped down and scooped him into his arms, just like he had when he’d carried him into the house with a sprained ankle._ _

__“Alfred! What do you think you’re doing?” he squawked._ _

__Alfred winked cheesily. “Sweeping you off your feet, darlin’.”_ _

__

__Arthur came awake slowly. He didn’t open his eyes, but he was aware of a solid warmth pressed up against him, the weight of a leg thrown possessively over his, and a pleasant soreness that made him smile._ _

__“Someone’s thinking happy thoughts.”_ _

__Arthur’s eyes flew open and he found himself staring into twin pools of blue. Caught off-guard, all he could do was blink and blurt, “Were you watching me sleep?”_ _

__Alfred chuckled softly and reached out to brush a strand of hair from Arthur’s forehead. “Just a little.” Then he added sheepish, “And it wasn’t at all creepy.”_ _

__Actually, it was rather endearing and not a little flattering, but Arthur wasn’t going to tell him that. He squirmed a little self-consciously, but Alfred began gently stroking his hair and Arthur relaxed into it like a happy cat. He didn’t realize he’d closed his eyes again until Alfred said softly, “It was good, wasn’t it?” His eyes snapped open and it was only then that he saw the hint of insecurity in Alfred’s eyes. He wondered if there were stories in Alfred’s past as well, lovers who put that look in his eyes._ _

__“It was bloody marvelous,” he answered fervently, and reached out to touch the side of Alfred’s face._ _

__Relief sparked in Alfred’s eyes, which he quickly covered by leaning forward and placing a kiss on Arthur’s forehead. “Couldn’t have said it better myself, sweetheart.” He laid his head back on the pillow, practically purring as Arthur began gently stroking down those acres and acres of tanned, taut skin. “So, what’s the next step?”_ _

__Arthur stilled. “What?”_ _

__“With the book,” Alfred continued, apparently not realizing how open that question was. “You’re finished writing it.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but clamped his mouth shut._ _

__“Ah. Yes, I’m finished writing it, but there are always rewrites. I’m sure I have at least half a dozen voice message from Francis by now, wondering why I haven’t called him back.” He stretched, enjoying the feel of skin against skin. “Francis isn’t my editor, but he’s got bloody good instincts, and I at least consider what he has to say before I submit a book. I’m certain he’ll suggest some changes before I turn the book into my publisher.”_ _

__It was subtle, but Arthur could feel Alfred’s muscles relax a bit. “So you don’t have to go back to New York yet?” he asked hopefully._ _

__“About that…” Arthur hesitated, wondering if this was the time to bring up what he’d been thinking._ _

__“Don’t go,” Alfred blurted, pushing himself up on his elbows and looking down at him intently. “Stay here. You’re happy here, I know you are. This place is perfect for you.” His words picked up speed so he was nearly babbling, something Arthur had never heard from him before. “I want us to have a chance, Artie, and I’m not sure that’s possible if you’re in America and I’m here. And I can’t just leave the agency; my money’s tied up in it, and if I pull it out, Mattie won’t be able to keep it afloat. But if I leave it in, I won’t be able to afford to move to New York to start over there, but I don’t want us to lose what we just found –”_ _

__“Alfred, Alfred, love, hush.” Arthur quickly put a finger gently over his mouth, stopping the flow of words. Alfred obediently swallowed his words, but watched him with such worried eyes that Arthur had to stretch up and replace his finger with his lips. When they parted, Arthur laid back down and sighed. “I was going to wait to tell you this.” He gave Alfred a severe look. “I was going to take you out to a nice dinner on a proper date.”_ _

__Alfred actually bounced a little on the bed. “Tell me _what_?”_ _

__“I’ve decided to stay in England. You’re right – I am happy here. And I want to give us a chance too--” He barely got the words out before Alfred had him gathered up in a tight hug._ _

__“I’m glad, I’m glad, I’m so glad,” Alfred kept repeating in his ear._ _

__Arthur laughed – and it felt so _good_ to laugh, something else to thank Alfred for. “When I left England for New York, I was still angry and hurt and I thought that New York would be a fresh start. It was, but I can’t say I loved living there. It’s hard to find a quiet place for yourself there, but here…” He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I can do that here.” Then he added dryly, “I’ll need to find a house, of course.”_ _

__Alfred pulled back and grinned happily. “I can get you this one. The only reason the owner was leasing it is because he couldn’t sell it with the housing market the way it is. Trust me, babe, I’ll get you an awesome deal.” Before Arthur could open his mouth to respond, Alfred’s grin widened. “And I’ll throw Susie into the deal too.”_ _

__Arthur nearly came off the bed. “You can get Susie?” Not only had his horsemanship improved by leaps and bounds thanks to Alfred’s coaching, but he and the gentle mare had bonded and made a wonderful team._ _

__“I know the owner. I’m sure he’d sell her if he knows she’s going to a good home.” He gently brushed some hair off Arthur’s forehead. “So what do you say, Artie? The house and Susie both?”_ _

__Arthur looked up at the laughing face hovering above him, reached deep inside himself and found the courage to ask in a whisper, “And you too?”_ _

__Alfred appeared startled by the question, then his face softened. “That goes without saying, but if you need me to say it… me too.”_ _

__It spoke volumes about Arthur and his collection of insecurities that he _did_ need Alfred to say that, and he flushed at that knowledge of himself. _ _

__“Hey.” Alfred’s forehead rested against his, and he said gently, ‘I’ll say it as many times as you need me to. Or as many times as it takes you to believe it.”_ _

__Arthur slipped his arms around the other man and hugged him in response while he sighed, “Blimey, I’m such a mess.”_ _

__“Yeah, but you’re my mess.” Alfred kissed his ear. “We’ll get through this together, okay?” Before he could answer, Arthur’s stomach growled loudly. Then, as if in sympathetic response, Alfred’s did as well. “Sounds like it’s breakfast time,” Alfred said cheerfully. Then he hummed to himself for a moment as if thinking. “So, Artie,” he said thoughtfully, “how big’s your shower?”’_ _

__

__They both agreed later the shower was the perfect size._ _

__

__Alfred shifted from foot to foot, remembering the last time he’d stood here in this airport waiting for someone. At least this time he didn’t have to hold a sign; Francis Bonnefoy knew what he looked like. He just wished he weren’t so nervous about this meeting. The agent had called Arthur to tell him he was coming to go over his manuscript in person, as was their usual practice, and could Alfred please pick him up at the airport? It was an innocuous request, but they both knew Bonnefoy wanted some face-to-face time with him alone._ _

__Arthur had given him a reassuring kiss before he left the house, telling him, “Just think of Francis as my older brother, because I promise you, that’s how he sees himself. Besides, it’s not like he has any say in the matter of who I’m with. He couldn’t abide Antonio.”_ _

__“Yeah, well he had a point there,” Alfred said sourly. Arthur’s response to that was to give him a smart smack on the shoulder and tell him to man up._ _

__Alfred spotted Francis striding through the airport, heading unerringly in his direction. He was dressed in a tailored suit and cashmere overcoat that probably cost the equivalent of the agency’s payroll for a week, and he moved with effortless grace, the confidence of a man who had been born to money. Even though Alfred had dressed in his sharpest suit and had passed Arthur’s…rather intense inspection that morning, he suddenly felt shabby in comparison. Still, he squared his shoulders and stiffened his spine, putting on his best Client Smile when Francis reached him._ _

__“Francis.” He held out his hand. “It’s good to finally meet you.”_ _

__Bonnefoy’s smile was civil as he accepted Alfred’s hand and shook it briefly. “Alfred. The pleasure is mine.” It sounded more polite than friendly, but Alfred maintained his smile. Then it occurred to him that Bonnefoy might be trying to mindfuck him to see what he was made of, and he relaxed. He was the king of mindfuck; bring it on, dude._ _

__After they had gotten settled in the car, Bonnefoy said, “If you know of someplace nearby that serves decent food, I’d like to stop for breakfast first.”_ _

__Alfred looked at him in some surprise. “Didn’t they serve breakfast on the flight?”_ _

__Francis looked at him like he’d grown another head. “The Air France flights were all booked,” he sniffed. “I had to fly British Air.”_ _

__While privately thinking, ‘ _What a diva_ ’, Alfred said cheerfully, “I know just the place.”_ _

__

__The place Alfred had chosen was a little café attached to a German bakery. He’d taken clients there before, and the baked goods were incredible. He could tell Francis was impressed as he looked over the offerings and ordered an apple turnover and a café au lait; Alfred got his personal favorite, a slice of cinnamon streusel cake and a large dark roast coffee._ _

__The two were enjoying their small breakfast in a silence that Alfred thought a little uncomfortable, but he hadn’t found a way to break it yet. As he was struggling to come up with a neutral ice-breaker (The weather might be safe, but there wasn’t much to be said about it at the moment: cool, damp and overcast. Conversation over.) Francis neatly placed his silverware on his plate and looked at him across the table. “So. Arthur tells me you’ve asked him to stay in England.”_ _

__Okay then. Right to the point. He could handle that. “I have,” he said. “I know he’s told you about us. It’s still pretty new, but I really love him,” he said earnestly, “and I want us to have a chance. I’m not sure we can do that if we’re living three thousand miles apart.”_ _

__Francis took a delicate sip of his coffee. “You could move to New York instead of asking him to uproot _his_ life.”_ _

__Alfred gritted his teeth and tried to remember to think of Francis as Arthur’s big brother and not a Big French Dick, because he was sure Arthur had already explained all this to Francis. “Half the capital in our business is mine,” he explained, keeping his voice level, “and if I pull it out, Matt won’t be able to keep the agency afloat. And I couldn’t afford to move and start over in New York without that money. Arthur loves it here, and it seemed like a good solution.”_ _

__The Frenchman shrugged casually. “But if you’re living with Arthur, then certainly money won’t be an issue.”_ _

__Something in his tone, and the faint knowing smirk on his face made Alfred sit up sharply as anger flared through him. “So that’s what this is about?” His voice was loud enough to cause some of the other customers to look over at them. “You think I want Artie for his _money_?” He leaned across the small table, putting himself in Bonnefoy’s face. “Go ahead and write up any pre-nup you want to, you asshole,” he snarled, “and I’ll sign it. I won’t even _read_ it first.” He poked a finger in the other man’s chest with some emphasis. “But don’t you _ever_ breathe a word about it to Arthur. The last thing he needs is to know a man he loves like a brother is treating his happiness like a business deal and that I signed a fucking _contract_ over him.” Throwing his crumpled napkin on the table, Alfred scraped his chair back noisily and stormed out of the café._ _

__

__Francis sat in silence for a few moments, willing his heartbeat back to normal. That had been unexpected. Or, perhaps, it wasn’t, he admitted to himself. He’d had long talks with Mathieu about Alfred F. Jones, and the young man had been honest about his cousin’s faults, but had also told him how Alfred had uprooted his own life to come to England when Matthew’s fledgling business had been collapsing around him. He thought he had a pretty good picture of Jones, but he’d had to be sure. With a sigh, he placed his serviette on the table and got to his feet. He could only hope that Alfred’s fury hadn’t prompted him to drive off and leave him stranded. Then he’d have to take a cab to Arthur’s place and he would have to explain to Arthur what happened. And then he would have to deliver _two_ apologies._ _

__Outside the café he was relieved to see Jones pacing up and down the pavement agitatedly, one hand gripping his hair. As he approached him from behind he would hear the muttered, “Fuck, fuck, _fuck!_ ” Cautiously, he reached out and touched the other man on the shoulder._ _

__Alfred whirled around, eyes narrowing when he saw Francis. His blue eyes glinted behind the lenses of his glasses, and there was still enough anger there for Francis to take a step back and slide his hands into his coat pockets, hoping the other man’s fury didn’t extend to hitting a ‘unarmed man’. “In my defense,” he said carefully, “I had that same conversation with two other people in Arthur’s life, and both of them laughed at me for the mere suggestion they were after his money. Then they used his insecurities against him and took all they could.” He smiled ruefully, “You, however, were the only one to look as if you were actually going to leap over the table and murder me.”_ _

__Alfred’s shoulders lost some of their tenseness, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry.”_ _

__“There is no reason to apologize. You are the only one I believed.”_ _

__Alfred blinked at him, surprised. “You mean –”_ _

__“I mean, I think you are exactly what you seem to be, Alfred Jones: loyal to your family, a savvy businessman, a decent man, and in love with my dearest friend.” Francis smiled, a genuine smile this time. “I don’t think I could ask for more for Arthur. So.” He held out a hand. “I hope we can be friends.”_ _

__Alfred gave him a measuring look before accepting his hand and shaking it firmly. “Since we both want the same thing for Arthur, I think we can shake on that.”_ _

__Francis felt himself relax as the other man gripped his hand; from the look of him, the boy could probably bring him to his knees if he chose to, but his grasp was firm and not overpowering. “ _Bon_. Now, we had better get on the road.” Francis smirked. “Knowing Arthur, he is worrying himself silly over how we are getting along.”_ _

__“Oh yeah, I’d better let Artie know why we’re running late.” He retrieved his phone and quickly began tapping out a text message, his thumbs flying over the virtual keyboard. “He didn’t say anything, but I think he was kind of nervous about us meeting.”_ _

__Francis smiled. Arthur knew him very well._ _

__“There we go.” Looking pleased with himself, Alfred held up the screen of the phone for Francis to see._ _

__Curious, Francis leaned close to read, then looked up, his eyebrows climbing. “ _Mon Dieu_ , he can read that?” The screen was filled with the worst kind of text talk abbreviations and seemingly random emoticons, most of which Francis didn’t recognize._ _

__Alfred grinned as he pressed the send button. “We should have an answer by the time we get to the car.”_ _

__The two started down the street to the parking garage where they’d found a spot to park. Alfred was humming a happy little tune under his breath – Francis wasn’t even sure he was aware of it – and Francis was content to walk in silence, wondering what he was up to._ _

__Just as Alfred had pressed the remote to unlock the car doors, Francis heard a musical beep, and Alfred pulled his phone out of his pocket, beaming. “Here we go.” He opened up the text message and his grin blossomed. He held out the phone again so Francis could read it, and Francis once again leaned closer._ _

__Francis read for a living, and as his professional gaze slid down the screen of densely filled with words, he knew immediately that every word was spelled out correctly, all the punctuation was in the proper place, and the shift key had been pressed at the beginning of each sentence. It was like reading an essay…and essay that filled three different screens. He looked up at Alfred, who was looking insufferably pleased with himself. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”_ _

__Alfred shrugged, pulling his phone back. “It’s good for him to get a little riled up now and then.” He sent back a smiley face, then tucked his phone back in his pocket._ _

__Francis privately agreed with him, but asked, “Do you do that often? Rile him up I mean?”_ _

__“Ha! Yeah. Not always on purpose though,” the other man said with a rueful grin._ _

__Before Francis got in the passenger seat of the car, he pulled out his own phone and sent a brief text message: _I like him_._ _

__

__They were nearly home before Francis broached the subject of Arthur’s new book. “So, Arthur tells me you have read his book. What did you think?”_ _

__Alfred was silent for a long moment, then said frankly, “I think it was amazing.” He gave his head a little shake. “It’s the only book that ever made me cry.”_ _

__Francis nodded; he had wept himself. “And yet at the end, Geoffrey, the young man, was beginning to heal. There was hope.” And it was at the end, with that realization, that he had wept._ _

__Alfred took his eyes off the road long enough to give him a quick look. “Like I told Artie, I was never very good at book reports. I can tear apart a contract or a proposal until the cows come home, but as far as that book goes, all I can say is, I thought it was fucking amazing. But you’re the expert, not me. What did _you_ think?”_ _

__“I think,” Francis said thoughtfully, “that Arthur has reached a new level in his writing, a level that I don’t think he even knew he could reach. And I think this book is going to explode onto the book charts when it comes out.”_ _

__Alfred let out a pent-up breath, nodding. “Yeah, I believe that. But he’s worried if his regular readers will like something so different from his usual books.”_ _

__Francis hummed. “Arthur has a very loyal following of readers, some of whom will be disappointed he hasn’t written another book in the series they love. But he will gain so much more from this book: new readers and critical acclaim that is nothing like he has received before. Make no mistake, Alfred, this book will be a turning point in his writing.”_ _

__“Wow. You sound awfully sure of that.”_ _

__“I am,” he said simply. Then he looked over at Alfred and his tone turned serious. “Writing this book was like…lancing an infected wound for Arthur. I know for a fact that he could not have written it as the person he was before he came here. It took a lot of courage for him to pull out all those memories and face them down.”_ _

__“He’s a different person from the one I met at the airport,” Alfred said definitely. “You’ll see for yourself.”_ _

__

__Ah, _l’amour_. If Francis weren’t such a advocate of everything to do with love, he would be positively sickened by the sappiness he’d been forced to observe over the last few days. Lingering looks; secret smiles; brushing hands; bickering that wasn’t really bickering, just an excuse to make up; stolen kisses when they thought Francis wasn’t looking (he was); and long walks, hand-in-hand. _ _

__Francis’ purpose in coming here was two-fold: First, he needed to go over Arthur’s manuscript with him before turning it in to Harrington. That had turned out to be a simple task; he had some suggestions of a technical nature, but he didn’t want to do anything to interfere with the raw emotions the story evoked, and in any event, there was nothing he would have changed. The second reason was to assure himself that Arthur wasn’t making another mistake in a relationship, especially coming hard on the heels of his last disastrous romantic venture. But it didn’t take him long to see that Alfred Jones was head-over-heels in love with Arthur, and that his friend was, for the first time since Francis had known him, truly happy._ _

___My work here is done_ , he thought wryly to himself, and cut his visit short, telling Arthur he wanted to visit his family in France before returning to New York. Francis tried not to take it personally that neither Arthur nor Alfred insisted he change his mind and stay longer._ _

__“Please remember me to your parents.”_ _

__For the trip to the airport, Francis had hired a driver this time, and he handed off his suitcase to Alfred, who stowed it in the trunk of the car. “I will indeed. And they will ask me, once again, when I am going to bring you to visit. It’s been far too long.” Francis’ parents adored Arthur and shamelessly spoiled him rotten every time he visited._ _

__Arthur smiled softly. “I’d like to see them again. They’re lovely people.” He sniffed, “I still say you’re adopted.”_ _

__Francis ignored him and did some quick math in his head: the proposed release date for the book and the interviews and television appearances that would necessarily lead up to it. By the time the dust settled, that would make it around… “What about Christmas? _Maman_ would love that. And, of course, you will bring Alfred.” _ _

__“Christmas.” Arthur nodded thoughtfully. “That will be after the book’s out…yes, it would be nice to get away and see them again. If - If they’ll have us, of course,” he added quickly._ _

__“Of course they will have you,” Francis scoffed. “Sometimes I think they would sooner you visit than me.” He studied Arthur for a moment, then grinned. “It’s good to see you with some color in those pale English cheeks.” He winked suggestively. “Whatever it is you’re doing, you should continue doing it.”_ _

__On cue, Arthur flushed, realized he was blushing, then proceeded to darken even more. “It’s just good old English air,” he spluttered. “And exercise. I do a lot of riding, and – and –” He broke off as Francis snickered. A splutter nearby caused them both to look over at Alfred, who had a hand covering his face and was shaking with restrained mirth. “You’re both insufferable,” Arthur said primly, bringing his eyebrows down in stern disapproval._ _

__Alfred’s laughing face appeared from behind his hand. “Yeah, but you love us anyhow.”_ _

__Arthur opened his mouth to retort something sharp, but then his features softened as he gazed at Alfred. Then Alfred’s face got a very dopey look, and Francis rolled his eyes. “ _Et encore_ ,” he muttered. “Until later, _cher_ ,” he said, kissing Arthur on both cheeks. When he passed Alfred, he gave him a brief pat on the arm and said quite unnecessarily, “Take care of him.” Then he got into the car and settled back for the ride to the airport._ _

__When he looked into the side mirror, he saw Arthur and Alfred walking back to the house, arm in arm. Francis smiled and laid his head against the seat headrest. He’d told the truth about going to France to visit his family, but that wasn’t for a few days yet. In the meantime he’d made arrangements to spend some time with the delightful Mathieu Williams in London. And then, who knows? Perhaps Mathieu would also enjoy a visit to France at Christmas._ _

__

__Arthur finished the editing the last paragraph of the chapter he was working on, then went through his normal process of saving and backing up the document. When that was finished, he sat back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head, sighing with relief when heard the satisfying crack of vertebrae. The critical reaction to _Cuckoo in the Nest_ had been beyond anything he had ever dreamed. Francis, of course, had been infuriatingly smug about being right (“Did I not tell you, Alfred, on the day we met what the reaction would be?” “Have to say, he called it, Artie.”) so Arthur had no choice but to let him gloat. But he didn’t mind really; he was just so relieved the book had been well received. Perhaps someday there would be another Bancroft and Fletcher novel, but right now he found himself filled with other stories he wanted to tell. _ _

__The novel he was writing now was set in the Forties, during the war, and he was enjoying writing in that era. He and Alfred had been watching Forties films for the last few weeks - Casablanca, The Best Years of Our Lives, Twelve O’Clock High, Mrs. Miniver, A Canterbury Tale, Waterloo Bridge – although he’d been sniffling so hard by the end of that one that when Alfred woke from his customary doze, he went off to fix Arthur a tea and Beecham’s because he thought he was coming down with a cold._ _

__Backup complete, Arthur shut the lid of his laptop and his gaze slid as it usually did to the framed photo on his desk; and as usual, it brought a smile to his lips. This was a smaller version of the beautifully framed photo Alfred had hung in the drawing room, stating that a family portrait deserved a place of honor. The thought of those words never failed to warm Arthur’s chest, deep inside, and he studied the well-loved faces in the photo that had been taken last Christmas at the Bonnefoys’ estate in France: Mr. and Mrs. Bonnefoy, who had accepted him into the bosom of their family the first time Francis had brought him home, giving him his very first taste of belonging to a loving family; Francis himself, immaculately turned out as ever; Matthew, who had so easily slid into the role of younger brother that now Arthur couldn’t imagine life without him; and himself and Alfred, pressed together in the center, Alfred beaming at the camera, and on his own face a content smile that had taken a lifetime to appear there. His family. He looked at that picture sometimes and the realization hit him that he may not have had love when he was a child, but he had it in abundance now._ _

__Suddenly warm arms surrounded him from behind. “Hey, babe, you about ready? We need to get moving if we’re going to be in place to see that meteor shower. Forecast says it’s going to be perfect tonight. They’ll be almost as good as fireworks.” If Alfred had seen where his attention had been, he didn’t say anything. He never did; he understood Arthur’s old insecurities almost as well as Arthur did, and had figured out himself the best way to deal with them was just to make his own warm, solid presence known._ _

__“Yes, I’m ready.” Alfred loosened his grip and allowed him to get to his feet. “But I hope you’ve got plenty of blankets, because it’s going to be bloody cold out there on that hill.”_ _

__“Yep, plenty of blankets and hot chocolate –” He waggled his eyebrows – “and plenty of snuggling to keep warm.”_ _

__“Well that’s all right then,” Arthur said placidly. “As long as there’s hot chocolate.”_ _

__“Hey!”_ _

__Arthur leaned up the necessary inches to kiss him lightly on the lips. “And plenty of snuggling, of course.”_ _

__Alfred slid his arms around him and pulled him in tight, and Arthur was once again immeasurably pleased at how perfectly their bodies fitted together. As Alfred often said, it never got old. “That’s more like it.” They stayed that way for a long time, content, Arthur resting his cheek on Alfred’s shoulder, Alfred running his hand up and down Arthur’s back. “I’m so happy,” Alfred sighed._ _

__Arthur thought he knew Alfred as well as anyone in the world, but sometimes the man could still surprise him, blurting out whatever was on his mind with endearing frankness. Smiling, he pressed a kiss against the other man’s neck. “You’ve been reading my mind again,” he said softly._ _

__“Yeah?” Alfred pulled him in a little tighter, moving his hands down to Arthur’s rear, where he squeezed. “Can you read _my_ mind?”_ _

__It wasn’t very hard to read Alfred’s mind at the moment, and he slid a knee between Alfred’s legs and _pressed_ , eliciting a low moan. “But, darling,” he whispered hotly, biting down on the man’s earlobe, “what about the hot chocolate?”_ _

__“The hot chocolate can wait,” Alfred gasped._ _

__“But the meteors won’t,” he said innocently._ _

__“Meteors have been around for millions of years,” Alfred mumbled against Arthur’s neck. “They’ll be back. Eventually.”_ _

__Arthur’s breath was coming faster now, and it was so, so tempting to just sink to the floor and let Alfred have his way with him right here and right now, but if Alfred was willing to give up an astrological event he’d been looking forward to for weeks, then they’d do this properly…and in the comfort of their very large bed upstairs instead of a cold, windy, hillside in the country, or the hard floor of his study. But a little teasing would make it all the sweeter. “But I thought it was supposed to be perfect conditions tonight to watch the skies,” he reminded Alfred, even as he moved his thigh a little firmer against him. “Almost as good as fireworks you said. And you’ve already packed those blankets and everything.” And he was absolutely certain that ‘everything’ included lube._ _

__Something like a whimper escaped Alfred and his hands tightened reflexively on Arthur’s rear. “ _Please_ tell me you’re just messin’ with me,” he whined._ _

__Arthur licked a long stripe up the side of his neck. “Guilty as charged,” he admitted in a throaty whisper._ _

__Alfred leaned back and looked down at him, humor glinting in his eyes. “You’re getting very good at that,” he told him, something like grudging admiration in his tone. Then another kind of glint entered his blue eyes, and suddenly Arthur felt like prey. “But there’s something I’m very good at too, Mr. Kirkland.”_ _

__Arthur couldn’t help it; he actually shivered under that look. “And what would that be, Mr. Jones?” he asked, his voice a little hoarse._ _

__He should have expected it by now, but Alfred still managed to startle a yelp out of him as he swept Arthur up into his arms with a triumphant grin. “Sweepin’ you off your feet, darlin’,” he crowed, and waggled his eyebrows. “I’ll show you fireworks,” he promised, and ran for the stairs._ _

__Who needed meteors?_ _

##### End

____


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